


Neighbors, Part 3: Holidays

by JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle



Series: Neighbors [4]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Coming Out, M/M, Neighbors AU, So far very fluffy, but references to homophobia, insecure eric, visiting Eric's parents as an established couple, will add to tags as story progresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-10 16:05:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10441551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle/pseuds/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle
Summary: Continuation of Neighbors AU in which Eric manages a Providence bakery and Jack is the Falconers' veteran captain. This installment follows them across holidays during their first year as an established and public couple.





	1. Chapter 1: Fourth of July (part one)

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't beta'd, so please let me know when you see something that needs to be fixed!  
> Many thanks to Ngozi for creating these lovely characters and the universe this one is based on.  
> Also, the name Alicia Zimmermann used professionally was Alicia Montgomery. I haven'd decided if that's her family name or just what she used for work.

Prologue

Suzanne stood in the doorway of Eric’s old room, an armful of towels clutched to her chest.

The room looked much the same as it had when Eric left for college in Massachusetts five years earlier.

Well, it was far neater than it ever had been when Eric lived in it, she thought with a rueful smile.

The shelf over the desk still held figure skating and hockey trophies. A bigger collection of medals hung over the side.

A large poster of Beyonce wearing a fur -- something -- and open down the front hung over the narrow bed.

Suzanne had been so hopeful when Eric put that poster up. It wasn’t to her taste, precisely, but it was clearly intended to be sexy. Eric wouldn’t have put up a sexy poster of a woman if he liked boys, she had reasoned.

Well, that hadn’t really worked out, had it? Five years after Eric hung the poster, when he was home for Christmas during his senior year, he’d sat her and Richard down and, face pale and knuckles white, and said. “Mama, Coach, I have to tell you something. I’m gay.”

And then before Suzanne got her wits together enough to say anything, he forged ahead. “And I’m not moving back after graduation. I’m going to stay in New England somewhere, where I can be close to my friends and where I don’t have to hide who I am.”

Suzanne had burst into tears at that point, which she knew was probably not the best reaction she could have had. She wasn’t sure Eric had ever believed that her tears came at the thought of never having him live at home again, or after that, never having him in a house down the street or the next town over, popping over to share a glass of sweet tea and bringing her grandchildren for Sunday dinner every week.

Well, maybe some of the tears were for the grandchildren that it seemed so much less likely for her to have.

But not because he liked boys. Surely he didn’t think that really came as a surprise, Beyonce poster or not. She knew that Samwell was a school that actively welcomed students who were gay or any other part of the alphabet soup she could never keep up with -- they practically advertised it. And she was more than aware of the rumors about her Dicky that people spread behind her back. And the truth was, she didn’t care. Dicky was bright and loving and generous and smart as a whip, and strong and athletic to boot. To her mind, anyone -- boy or girl -- would be lucky to catch his eye.

But she knew that not everyone -- around here, hardly anyone -- would see it that way, and she couldn’t argue his decision to stay up north if he didn’t want to hide that part of himself. And really, she knew, he shouldn’t have to. But she still cried for the future she wouldn’t have with her Dicky.

That seemed to be that until the panicked early morning phone call she’d gotten in April.

Dicky certainly hadn’t mentioned that he was seeing anyone before that, but it turned out that not only did he have a boyfriend, he had a famous boyfriend. Who was a professional athlete. Which meant that Dicky being his boyfriend -- that he had a boyfriend at all -- was going to be an item of gossip far beyond the local Methodist church.

Suzanne had done what she could in the moment, insisting that Dicky bring his boyfriend to meet his family as soon as was practical, to make sure he knew anyone he chose would be welcome in her home. Then, when she hung up, she called all the relatives -- Bittles and Phelps -- and told them that if anyone called or came around asking questions about her Dicky, the’d best not answer. If they did, they could expect to never taste so much as a crumb from her kitchen again. She’d called Richard at work, told him what was going on, and asked him to give the same message at the high school.

It had worked, after a fashion. She had heard from Dicky that there were a couple of photos from his youth that found their way onto the Internet gossip sites, but they were things that had been published in local papers, from his days figure skating and winning prizes for his pies at the county fair.

“Really all anyone else could say is that they thought I was gay,” Dicky said in a Skype call from what looked like a lovely apartment. “Since Jack and I confirmed our relationship, that’s not really news. Neither is the baking or figure skating, for that matter. A good YouTube search would find plenty of both.”

Still, how did one prepare to host one’s son and his boyfriend? Her own parents, and Richard’s parents, would never have allowed an unmarried couple to share a bed in their home. Was this different? They wouldn’t have the scandal of an unplanned pregnancy, and any scandal of who was sleeping where -- in the town’s mind, at least -- would be eclipsed by the scandal of their relationship. 

Searching her own heart, Suzanne found she couldn’t bring herself to disapprove of Dicky sharing a bed with his Jack. They’d been together for months now, and it was clear from the way Dicky talked about Jack that he loved the boy. From the few conversations she’d had with Jack, either over Dicky’s shoulder on Skype or once or twice when Dicky handed Jack the phone while he finished something, she was fairly certain he felt the same.

Coach walked up behind her and looked into Dicky’s room as well.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Just getting ready for Dicky and Jack to come tomorrow.” Suzanne shrugged. “I’m not sure we should have Dicky in here.”

“You can’t seriously expect two grown men to sleep in that bed?” Coach said. “I guess I assumed we’d put them in the guest room.”

“You don’t mind that?” Suzanne asked.

Richard wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her back against his chest.

“I don’t know that I could say I don’t mind, exactly,” he said. “Some things I just don’t want to think about, and Junior’s sex life definitely is one of them. But he’s not a teenager, and it’s a big step for him to bring his boyfriend home, and I don’t think we shouldn’t make them spend the night sneaking back and forth like we did.”

Suzanne nodded.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll just put all these towels in the guest room then. I hope the new bedding we got is good enough.”

“For Junior?” Richard raised an eyebrow.

“For _Jack Zimmermann!”_

“Don’t tell me you’re getting all flustered about a hockey player,” Richard said. 

“He’s _Alicia Montgomery’s son!”_ Suzanne said.

“And a hockey player,” Richard said. “So no matter how much he makes now, I’m pretty sure I can guarantee he’s slept in worse accommodations. A few flowers on the comforter won’t throw him off.”

“I suppose,” Suzanne said. “I just wish the house was more, well, stylish. More some high-end European brand I don’t even know and less La-Z-Boy.”

“He’ll be fine, I promise,” Bob said. “Everything else ready?” 

“Well, I do have to get some more butter, and maybe more blueberries and peaches,” she said. “Dicky’s still Dicky, after all.”

Chapter 1

Madison, Georgia

When the plane landed, Jack rolled his shoulders and stood up. The extra room in business class was nice -- necessary, he told Eric, for an athlete of his size, so Eric wouldn’t complain too much about Jack paying for the tickets -- but the best part was getting off the plane before the poor travelers stuck in coach. Jack was raised to be polite, but the few times he’d had to fly near the rear of the plane, it was all he could do not trample people to get out once the aircraft taxied to a stop.

Eric was standing next to him, bent over his phone.

“Mama’s already waiting at baggage claim,” he said, not looking up. Jack didn’t have to see his face to know it was pale and pinched just a bit. He’d been like that since they left for the airport this morning.

“Hey, Eric,” Jack said, bumping him lightly. “It’ll be OK. I promise.”

Eric looked at him, nodded, and reached out for the carry-on Jack retrieved from the overhead bin.

“OK,” he said.

As soon as they made their way out of the narrow aisle and off the plane, Jack reached for Eric’s hand and interlaced their fingers.

“We’ve got this,” he said.

He didn’t let go until they approached the baggage carousel and there was a small woman with Eric’s blond hair and brown eyes smiling broadly and not-quite-running towards them. Then Eric had to let go to return the long, hard hug his mother was giving him.

“Dicky, it’s been so long,” she was saying, finally loosening her grip on her son and looking at his face. “You look wonderful.”

Then she let him go and pulled Jack into a hug, not quite as tight or quite as long, but it was certainly more than just a polite gesture. Jack found his own arms coming up to embrace her.

“You’re Jack,” she said, somewhat unnecessarily as she let him go.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bittle,” Jack said.

“Please. Call me Suzanne,” she said. “How many bags do you have to get? They should be out soon. Then we need to stop at the market on the way home -- or we do if you want to make anything with fruit, Dicky, because I clean used all the peaches and blueberries up -- and we should get some fresh salad greens for dinner. Coach is going to grill, Dicky. Now, Jack, I know Dicky’s said you have a strict diet to keep to, so is all right we have steak tonight? There’s also some chicken we could put on the grill, but I was hoping to fry that tomorrow, but if we’re stopping at the market we could always get more …”

Jack just let the torrent of words wash over him. There might be a time when she actually wanted an answer to her questions, but it seemed like she could go as long as Eric did when he was on a roll. 

“Mother!” Eric hissed. His face had gone from pale to red. Well, Jack supposed, being embarrassed by his mother was better than worrying that they weren’t entirely welcome.

Mrs. Bittle -- Suzanne -- pulled up short.

“Lord, I’m going a mile a minute, aren’t I?” she said. “I’m just a little nervous. I never thought I’d be meeting Alicia Montgomery’s son.”

Eric blush went a shade darker.

“Mother!” he said again.

“I’m sorry!’ she said. “So, bags. How many are we looking for?”

“Just one,” Jack said. “We only really had to check a bag at all because of our skates. And steak for dinner is just fine, ma’am. Really, whatever is fine. It’s the off-season, and I’m vacation here, eh?”

“You’re accent is just so cute!” Suzanne said. “Is that how your mother speaks too?”

“No, ma’am,” Jack said, shooting a look at Eric and shrugging. Most people he met wanted to know about his father, if only because most people he met had something to do with hockey. “She’s from the States, although she’s lived in Canada more or less full-time since my father retired.”

“That’s right, he was a hockey player, too, wasn’t he?” Suzanne said. “I think my sister Connie thought he was attractive for a few years.”

“I’m going to get our bag,” Eric broke in, before turning on his heel and walking away. Jack followed him with his eyes, surprised to register that Eric’s shoulders were shaking. He wasn’t crying, Jack realized when Eric turned with their duffel bag. He was laughing.

 

***********************************

Eric couldn’t help giggling at the spectacle his mother was making of herself. Jack was going to get the full dose of southern hospitality, and he wasn’t even going to know what hit him. But really, it was about the best Eric could hope for. If only Coach reacted as well. Where was Coach, anyway? It was a Sunday in July, so it couldn’t be football,

“Where’s Coach?” he asked his mother as he toted the bag back and the three of them turned for the exit.

“Home,” his mother said. “We’ve got the family barbecue tomorrow, so he wanted to get the yard ready as well as he could today. He’ll start smoking that pork shoulder pretty close to sunup, so he has to make sure he has everything he needs for that, and he was gonna cut the grass and do the edging.”

“Of course.” Eric rolled his eyes. “The edging. Because the world will end if a blade of grass casts its shadow on the walk.”

“That’s enough, Dicky,” his mother said. “He’s not asking you to do it, so you have no call to complain.”

That’s when they hit the doors and Jack looked like he’d been hit with a hot, wet sponge.

“Your father is doing yardwork in this weather?” he asked after a moment.

“What weather, sweetheart?” Suzanne asked absently, feeding her parking ticket to the pay machine at the entrance to the garage. “It doesn’t look like it’s going to storm now, does it?”

“He means the heat, Mama,” Eric said. “Canadian, remember? Jack, this really isn’t all that bad. You get used to it.”

“Says the man who uses the heated seats in May,” Jack chirped.

The ride home and the stop at the market were uneventful. Well, except for the way Jack put his hand possessively on the small of Eric’s back when they turned into the checkout lane behind Eric’s mother, and took his hand again as they crossed the parking lot.

Eric didn’t see any drivers crash their cars in shock. That was a plus.

When they arrived home, the lawn was clipped to an evenness that would have done a golf course groundskeeper proud, and there was a clear inch of space between the grass and the pavement of the driveway and front walk.

Suzanne parked in the driveway and led the way through the garage to the kitchen door, and Eric smirked when Jack visibly sighed with relief when he made it to the air-conditioned interior.

“Richard?” Suzanne called.

“In here,” Eric heard Coach call from the living room. “Need help carrying things?”

Coach was on his way to the kitchen, Eric realized a moment before his father appeared in the doorway.

“Oh, there you are,” his mother said. “No, I’ve got these two young men to help me. I think they have everything, even with their bags.”

“Junior,” Coach said, looking him up and down and giving him a nod that might have been approval or might have been simple acknowledgment.

“Coach,” Eric nodded in return. “It’s good to see you, sir. This is my, uh, my boyfriend, Jack.”

Coach stepped forward and extended his hand. “Good to meet you, Jack,” he said. “Welcome to Madison.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jack said, shaking Coach’s hand and returning his look with a level gaze of his own.

“I watched that last series you played,” Coach said, as he released Jack’s hand. “It was a shame it turned out the way it did. Still, every game has its share of lucky bounces -- or unlucky bounces, as the case may be.”

He really had watched, at least the last game, Eric thought. Jack’s shot with three minutes to go had ricocheted off the right goalpost, all the way over the left goalpost and then bounced out. If it had gone in, the game would have been tied and the Falconers would have at least gotten a shot at another game instead of losing to LA in six.

Jack had been very quiet for a very long time following that game.

Now, he said, “That’s the way it goes sometimes. The idea is to play well enough that it takes more than a bad bounce to derail you.”

Coach nodded -- definitely in approval this time -- and said, “Absolutely. I have the Braves game on. Get a beer if you want and come and sit a while. You too, Junior. You can rest a bit before you get to baking.”

Jack looked at Eric and shrugged. Eric shrugged back, opened the fridge and pulled out two bottles of beer. To be honest, spending some time on the couch, out of the heat, sounded pretty good. Even if he couldn’t curl up against Jack’s side the way he wanted to.

***************************

Eric had sat in the living room with Coach and Jack for an inning of the baseball game before hopping up.

“I’m going to see if Mama needs any help getting things ready for tomorrow,” he said, and took refuge in the kitchen.

“Want me to come with you?” Jack asked.

“No, that’s all right,” Eric said. “You rest. I’ll drive you around later if you want to see the town. It won’t take real long. And I got permission to get on the ice at the rink at 5:30, after public skate ends.”

“Supper’s at 6:30,” Coach said. “But it’s just us tonight, so I imagine we could wait a bit for you.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Eric said. “I’ll ask Mama about it.”

Then he disappeared.

Jack settled a little further back into the couch cushion, resigning himself to at least another inning of baseball. He hoped Coach wasn’t one of those people who got all poetic and nostalgic about the game. It was like watching the grass grow. What kind of game kept the ball in the hands of the defense?

“Baseball’s not really your sport, is it?” Coach asked.

“It’s all right,” Jack said.

“It’s OK to say it’s not your thing,” Coach said. “Not really my thing either. But there’s no football in the middle of summer.”

“I can’t say I know too much about football either,” Jack admitted. “Although it is more fun to watch than baseball.”

“It’s always been hockey for you, I guess,” Coach said. “With your dad and all.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack said. “I can’t say that I ever wanted to do anything else.”

Coach nodded and looked back at the TV.

“You’re a lucky man, then,” he said.

“I know I am,” Jack said. He wasn’t just talking about hockey, and he hoped Coach knew it.

“This thing with Junior,” Coach said. “I know it’s not been easy so far, and you wouldn’t be here -- you wouldn’t be together -- if you two weren’t serious. Both of you.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack said, wondering where Coach Bittle was going.

“So I’m not going to tell you how hard this will be, or everything y’all’ll end up giving up,” Coach continued. “Junior never was one to make things easy on himself. I want you to know that Suzanne and I love Eric, no matter what, and we’ll stand behind him.”

“You’re wrong,” Jack said. 

“Pardon me?”

“You’re wrong about one thing,” Jack said. “Being with Eric, it’s not hard. It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Sure, sometimes the attention isn’t great, but that’s not Eric. That’s everyone else. I love Eric too, you know, and he loves me, and I’ve got his back, no matter what.”

Jack took a long drag on his beer and looked back at the TV. It didn’t look like anything had happened while he was talking.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Coach said. “Go find him. I’m sure he’s in the kitchen, elbow deep in some kind of pastry.”

Coach raised his own bottle to Jack in a salute when Jack stood.

“Good talk,” he said.

Jack picked up his beer and headed across the hall to the kitchen.

His progress was arrested by the series of photos of Eric, progressing from a kid with front teeth not all the way in to a young teenager in a progression of figure-skating costumes, each one more snug and sparklier than the last. 

The first photos had Eric posing for the camera, but as Eric got bigger, the photography got better, and the images of Eric were spinning and leaping across the wall.

Jack was standing there when he heard Eric’s voice, chattering to his mother, apparently about Jack’s mother.

“Alicia -- yes, ma’am, she told me to call her Alicia -- is really just lovely,” Eric was saying. “You’d like her in person. I mean, she’s beautiful and she always looks so put-together, but she’s really friendly and good at putting people at ease.”

Suzanne must have said something when Eric paused.

“She definitely likes my baking, but maybe not as much as Jack’s dad? Bob really likes it -- and he likes to bake too. He even came and helped when I had to go in on my day off one day.”

Jack decided it was time to stop eavesdropping and turned into the doorway.

“They love more than your baking, _mon coeur,”_ Jack said. “They really like you.”

Jack smiled as Eric’s cheeks went pink and he turned his attention to the pie crust in front him.

“What kinds of things do your parents like?” Suzanne asked. “If you give me their address, I’ll send them a care package.”

“Let me just finish these pies,” Eric said. “We can get out of here once they’re in the oven if Mama’ll take them out.”

“Of course, Dicky,” Suzanne said.

“I wanted to show Jack around a little and take him to the rink,” Eric said. “Something about his Canadian blood. He turns into a moose if he goes three days without coming in contact with ice.”

“A moose?” Jack said.

“I was trying to think of a Canadian animal. Maybe a goose?” Eric suggested. “A Canada goose?”

************************************

“Can I take the truck?” Eric stuck his head in to ask his father once his hands were clean.

“Sure, Junior,” Coach said. “Drive careful.”

“Yes, sir.”

It would have been easier to take his mother’s minivan -- it was parked in the driveway, after all -- but Eric was watching for the way Jack’s eyes widened a bit when he swung up into the cab of the black Ford pickup.

“This is huge,” Jack said. “I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drive.”

“Yeah,” Eric said. “It’s what I learned to drive on.”

Eric maneuvered the truck past his mother’s van, their skates safely stowed in the cab behind the seats, then drove sedately down the street.

“We’ll go downtown first, and through the historic district,” Eric said. “There’s some big pre-Civil War houses, and the town park. Then we can go by the high school, and then over to the rink. See all the sights.”

“Whatever you say,” Jack said. “I want to see your places.”

“My places?”

“Places that were important to you.”

“Well, here, that’s basically home, the rink and school,” Eric said. “It’s not where I learned to skate, but it is where I learned to play hockey.”

“Where’d you learn to skate?”

“The rink? It’s the other side of Atlanta,” Eric said. “We lived over by Monroe, but we had to leave there.”

He didn’t want to talk to much about why.

“Anyway, with the traffic, it was just too far for every day once we moved,” Eric said. “And I was getting to the point where even every day with Katya wouldn’t have been enough for me to progress. I probably would have had to move away from home, and I didn’t think I was ready to do that.”

Jack nodded.

“I moved out for hockey when I was 16,” he said. “The hockey was good, but it wasn’t really good for me, I don’t think.”

“Yeah, well the hockey I was playing at 16 was with a co-ed club team that was actually a lot of fun,” Eric said. “Most of them went to school here, but a few came in from other towns that didn’t have their own teams. It was a good group.”

“Will we see any of them while we’re here?” Jack said.

“Maybe Tuesday at the community picnic,” Eric said. “Tomorrow’s the family barbecue -- you’ll get your fill of Bittles and Phelps -- and then the whole town gets together for a picnic and concert on the Fourth.”

“I see the opportunity for lots of pies,” Jack said.

“Pies, tarts, brownies, lemon bars … “ Eric said. “We’ve barely begun. But we can skate first. Let me put the truck in back and then we can wait ‘til public skate clears out to go in.”

“So we have time to kill?” Jack said.

“Fifteen minutes or so,” Eric said. “Think we can think of something?’

Eric wasn’t disappointed with the kisses and the cuddling they were able to indulge in before he checked the time on his phone and sent a quick text.

“Mandy says most people are gone,” he said. “Zamboni’s out. Shall we?”

“Sure,” Jack said. “Which skates for you?”

“In this rink? Hockey.”

“Didn’t you figure skate here too?”

“Sometimes,” Eric said. “More the year before I left for Samwell. But in the beginning, when I left Katya, I didn’t put on figure skates for months. Then when I tried, I’d outgrown them.”

“Were you that burnt out?”

“No,” Eric said. “It wasn’t that. I just missed it so much, and I didn’t think I could cope with skating just for fun. It seemed like a clean break would be best.”

“That seems like maybe you didn’t want to stop,” Jack said.

“I didn’t, in some ways,” Eric said quietly. “But I didn’t want to keep going either, if that makes sense. Moving seemed like it was a chance for a new start, to be someone else.”

“Did it work?” Jack said.

“Well, my parents made sure I got new skates, and I used to stay after hockey practice to figure skate, so maybe not so much?” Eric said. “But by that time, I had friends -- or teammates at least -- so it wasn’t so bad when people found out.”

Jack was quiet while Eric finished tying his skates and stepped onto the ice.

“Race you?” he asked.

“Why do I do this to myself?” Jack responded with a groan and took off after him.

************************

Jack helped Eric clear the table after dinner and listened as his mother ran over the schedule for the next two days.

Tomorrow, July 3, the family -- which sounded like it would be anywhere between 20 and 30 people -- would come over to the Bittle’s house for barbecue. Most people wouldn’t have to work, so they’d start arriving around 3.

“Moomaw’ll probably be here first,” Eric told him. “You’ll like her. She’s the one who taught me to bake, and later to to adjust recipes on my own. I have a feeling she’ll like you too -- she has a thing for tall, dark and handsome.”

“Speaking of tall, dark and handsome, Connie and Roger will be here too, with the kids” Suzanne said.

“Roger’s not --” Eric started.

“Tall, dark or handsome? I know, sweetheart, I know, but remember Connie had a poster of Bad Bob Zimmermann in her room when we were teenagers,” Suzanne said. “I think she’s a little bit excited to meet his son. Especially since he looks so much like his father.”

“Oh, God, we’ll keep her away from you as much as we can,” Eric said.

“That’s OK,” Jack said. “I mean, if it gets really crazy, feel free to rescue me, but if she just wants to tell me how great he is, I can handle it.”

“To be fair, he is pretty great,” Eric said. 

“He is,” Jack agreed. “Although so many people talking about him was a bit much to take when I was younger.”

“What about Aunt Bobbi and Uncle Lee?” Eric asked. “And the boys?”

“They won’t be coming this year,” Suzanne said shortly.

“No? They on vacation or something?” Eric asked. “Not like them to turn down a free meal.”

“They’re not invited,” said Coach, who was nursing an iced tea at the kitchen table.

“Why not?” Eric asked.

Jack saw the Bittle parents exchange a silent look, then Suzanne said, “I don’t know that they would have come if they were invited, sugar. When the news broke about you and Jack, well, you know people were talking about it. Bobbi called me to ask if I knew before, about you …”

Eric’s expression had hardened.

“About me being gay?”

“Well, yes. And I said I did know that, not that it was any business of hers, and she said I should have told her as soon as I suspected anything and not let her put her sons in danger by bringing them here.”

She stopped talking.

“Dicky, sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” she said. “She had no call to say anything like that.”

Eric’s chuckle was grim.

“As soon as you suspected?” he said. “Pretty much everyone has suspected I was gay since before I knew what gay was, including her. She’s probably just afraid that people will think her kids are gay by association.”

“Well, I told her that anyone who didn’t want to associate with my son wasn’t welcome in my home,” Suzanne said. “I think it’s caused some hard feelings in the rest of the family.”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Eric said. “I never wanted to make things tough for you.”

“Oh, not hard feelings against us,” Suzanne said. “Against them. Although apparently the feeling is that cutting them off entirely wouldn’t do those kids any favors.”

Eric looked surprised, Jack thought, but pleasantly so.

“Anyway, Tuesday’s the community picnic, so we’ll have our hands full tomorrow morning getting ready for both days,” Suzanne said. “Jack, if you don’t want to spend the day in the kitchen, maybe Coach could take you to use the gym at the school? Dicky said you have a pretty strict regimen.”

“Uh, that might be good,” Jack said, looking at Eric for help. Was this OK for Eric? Eric shrugged, and Jack said, “I thought we could go for a run in the morning, but some weights would be good, too. But really, I’m fine helping out.”

“Don’t you worry, son, we’ll put you to work, too,” Coach said, standing up. “I’m for bed. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”

“Me too,” Suzanne said. “Dicky, we put both of your things in the guest room. Make sure the lights are off and the doors are locked when you go to bed.”

Eric looked like he’d been dipped in hot water, but all he said was, “Sure thing, Mama.Good night.”

As soon as Eric’s parents were safely upstairs, Eric turned to Jack and said, in an exaggerated whisper, “They put both of our things in the guest room?”

It was Jack’s turn to chuckle. “I think they figured out that we’ve slept together, _mon coeur.”_

“I know, but did they have to make it so obvious?” Eric said. “I mean, it’s not like we could both stay in my old room, unless we wanted to sleep on the floor like a slumber party. But still …”

“What did you think what would happen?” Jack asked. “I mean, maybe they should have said something before, but they’re trying, right?”


	2. July 3-4: Madison, Georgia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric and Jack spend July 3 and 4 with the Bittle/Phelps clan and at the Madison community picnic. And watch the fireworks. Did I mention the fireworks?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given that Eric and Jack are out and about in Madison, and given that Eric isn't delusional in his worry about homophobia in his hometown, it does crop up in this chapter. It's not terribly graphic, but it's there.

“Jack Zimmermann works harder than God.”

Eric made the pronouncement after flopping in a kitchen chair, a glass of cold water in front of him.

Jack had downed his water and headed upstairs for the first shower after they returned from a run that left both of them soaked with sweat and breathing far harder than three miles should. Eric thought he’d tolerated the humidity a touch better than Jack, who really had been sucking wind by the end. But really, Eric grew up here. It shouldn’t be this bad.

“Looks like you’re working pretty hard too,” his mother said, sitting with coffee and a notebook open in front of her. “And you don’t even have a contract riding on it.”

“I know, I know,” Eric said. “But you know I get squirrelly if I don’t get exercise.”

“Yes, and I know you and I are going to produce six pies, eight dozen cookies, four dozen lemon bars and two dozen tarts in the next 36 hours,” his mother said, reading down her list.

“I already made two of the pies and the cookie dough is chilling in the fridge,” Eric said.

“Still, inactivity is not likely to be a problem over the next couple of days,” she said. “You’re not trying to impress him, are you?”

“No, ma’am,” Eric grinned. “He knows I can beat him in a foot race. But Jack wanted to run, and he doesn’t know his way around here.”

His mother didn’t bother responding. Of course Jack would be perfectly capable of running by himself. 

“I wanted to spend time with him,” Eric said finally. “He’s going over to the gym with Coach after breakfast, and then everyone will be here, and we won’t get a lot of time alone together. Lord, that sounds pathetic. Am I pathetic?”

His mother smiled and said, “Maybe a little. But I think it just sounds like you’re in love. And anxious about things.”

“Jack’s the one with anxiety,” Eric said, then stopped. He hadn’t asked Jack if he could share that. Although it was freely available information online. Had his mother Googled Jack?

“Jack’s not who I’m talking about, although if you think this will be hard on him, we’ll do our best to run interference,” she said.

“I told him what it would be like, and he seemed OK,” Eric said. “He has to deal with a lot of people a lot of the time, so he has ways to cope with it. Sticking to his exercise routine helps. The most important thing is just to let him take breaks every so often -- let him go hide in the guest room without making a big deal of it. At least, that’s what works at home.”

“Thanks for telling me, but I still wasn’t talking about Jack,” his mother said.

“It’s just, what if he doesn’t like me?” Eric said.

Suzanne’s eyebrows nearly hit her hairline.

“I think the last thing you need to worry about is that boy not liking you,” she said. “Sweetheart, do you see the way he looks at you?”

“No, not like that,” Eric said. “I mean, I know he likes the me he knows in Providence. But it’s different there. I’m different there. I don’t have to … well, act like someone I’m not, or worry that people will say something or do something. I don’t have to just take it when people say things behind my back. I mean, nobody really does say anything behind my back there. Or to my face. Jack met a fun, competent, mostly confident, baker who figure skates for fun and can keep up with him on hockey skates. Here, I’m just Coach’s kid that everyone always thought was gay and had to look over my shoulder to keep from getting beaten up. Again. Only now they know I’m gay, which shouldn’t bother me, because I know you don’t get it, but I have no problem being gay. I like being gay and I love Jack. But thinking about them talking about me being gay makes me want to hide. And that makes me angry. And I don’t want to be angry when no one’s even done anything to me yet.”

He stopped when he ran out of breath. His mother’s face had gone through about half a dozen expressions, from confusion to indignation to anger to a soft smile, ending on a sad expression.

“Dicky, sugar, you have every right to be angry,” she said. “You feel the way you feel. But I think maybe you’d be surprised at how many people here care about you -- no matter who you date, even if they don’t get it. So for today, maybe, try to take people as they come? Your Moomaw loves you, and so do your cousins, and your aunts and uncles -- well, most of them, at least. No, all of them, if they would get their heads out of their behinds. They’re looking forward to meeting your beau, although I think maybe you should warn him that he’s likely to get at least three versions of a shovel talk.”

Eric almost choked. “They wouldn’t.”

“Oh, yes, they would,” his mother said. “But he seems pretty level-headed. He’ll know it just means people love you. And you are exactly who he met in Providence, no matter where you are.”

“I know,” Eric said, but he didn’t sound sure.

“If people push at you today, well, you handle it the way you want,” Suzanne said. “But I was serious when I said people who can’t welcome you aren’t welcome in our home. Now for the more important thing.”

Eric looked at her expectantly.

“You love Jack?”

************************

By the time Jack and Coach returned to the Bittle home, there was a petite woman with a cloud of white hair ensconced in the kitchen. She had a glass of iced tea in front of her, along with a pile of peaches with wrinkled skins. She was peeling and slicing them while Eric chattered to her, stopping as soon as he saw Jack.

“Hey there,” Eric said. “Moomaw, this is my boyfriend, Jack Zimmermann. Jack, this is my Moomaw, also known as Charlene Phelps.”

“You can call me Moomaw,” the woman said. “Pretty much everyone in town does.”

“You can call me Jack,” Jack said, provoking a hoot from Moomaw.

Moomaw turned to look at Eric. “Well ain't he a long, cool drink of water,” she said with a wink.

“And he's mine, so hands off,” Eric joked back.

Jack felt a pleasant twist in his gut at the way Eric laid claim to him, kidding or not. Best to get out of the kitchen.

“Um, I'm going to shower and then I can help?” he said. “Maybe leave me some things I can actually do?”

“Don't worry, sweetheart, we’ll have a cutting board and a pile of vegetables with your name on ‘em,” Eric said, turning from the table to the stove to stir the chocolate melting in some sort of a two-pan contraption. 

Eric was as good as his word, but before he let Jack get started on prepping fruits and vegetables for various salads and sides, he presented him with a cherry pie that still needed a top crust, and the rolled-out layer of dough.

“Think you can put a lattice top on that?”

Eric asked.

“Dicky, that's not fair,” said a new woman sitting at the table. “He's a hockey player, not a baker.”

“Just watch him, Aunt Connie,” Eric said.

“Yeah, just watch me,” Jack said, cutting the dough into strips.

Connie took a seat across from Jack to do just that, apparently waiting to rescue him when he made a mess of it.

He didn't.

“Well, I am impressed,” Connie said. “Who knew he could do that?”

Eric and Moomaw traded smirks and then Eric said, “He’s been baking with me for months, Aunt Connie. Of course he can weave a lattice.”

“I bet your dad can't do that,” Connie said to Jack. “He was always a force to be reckoned with on the ice.”

“I don't know if he can make a lattice,” Jack said. “But he does make a really good tourtière. Between him and my mother, he's the far better cook. But he didn't do so many sweets until he met Eric here.”

“Wait, Dicky, you've met Bad Bob?”

“Um, yes, a few times,” Eric said. “He even helped me at the bakery one day. He's really nice.”

“Maybe one of these days I'll get to meet him,” Connie said. 

Eric didn't respond, and Jack was pretty sure he knew why. The only occasion he could see his parents meeting Eric’s extended family -- who lived nearly 1,000 miles from Providence -- would be if they eventually got married and had a big enough wedding to invite their whole families. That was something Jack thought about -- at least the marrying Eric part -- but it wasn't something they'd discussed yet.

Eric finally broke the silence.

“So I've been using that new recipe you sent for strawberry-rhubarb jam, Aunt Connie, and it's really good,” he said. “But have you tried it with a little less sugar?” That broke the conversation open, as all the cooks in the room offered questions and opinions and alternatives that Jack couldn't quite follow, but it took the attention off him, so that was good enough.

He chopped in silence until Coach poked his head in from deck.

“Can I borrow Jack for a few minutes?” he asked. “I could use another set of hands to get the canopy up over the tables.”

Jack looked at the vegetables still in front of him and then at Eric.

“You go ahead,” Eric said. “Aunt Connie can make herself useful here. I'll make us sandwiches and drinks in a little while and bring lunch out.”

**********************

By the time all the relatives were there and Coach had pulled the pork shoulder out of the smoker, Eric was thanking God that he and Jack had gotten a brief lunch break earlier. Except for that 15 minutes or so, sitting at the picnic table under the canopy Jack just put up, he hadn’t had moment alone with his boyfriend.

And it did feel a little like being alone sitting there, even with Coach pulling out coolers and arranging chairs and tables in the yard. Coach didn’t pay them any mind, and after a while, he went in to get a bite himself. With the way the deck and the canopy were situated, Eric knew they couldn’t be seen from the kitchen.

Maybe that gave him the courage to lay his hand over Jack’s on the table and say, “Thanks for this.”

“What do you mean?” Jack asked.

“Thanks for coming and letting me show you off to my family,” Eric said. “Show them that even if they don’t really understand me, I have good things -- good people -- in my life. And find out that my parents really are OK with me. More than I thought, at least.”

“And here I thought it was that I took canopy duty so you could stay in the kitchen.”

“That too,” Eric said.

The rest of the afternoon was busy, but still fun, with none of the awkwardness that Eric had feared.

Until Trevor popped up in front of Jack with a football. 

Trevor, who was 11 years old and thinking he was on top of the world. Eric wasn’t -- couldn’t be -- envious of a child, but Trevor was everything every family wanted their sons to be. Tall, strong, quarterback of his Pop Warner football team. He was even generally well-spoken and respectful. And Eric was fairly certain he had never worn sequins.

Trevor was the oldest son of his oldest cousin, and he was the undisputed leader of the pack of the next generation. 

“You’re Jack Zimmermann,” Trevor said. Eric listened as hard as he could from where he was arranging side dishes on the outdoor buffet table.

“Yes,” Jack said. “Who are you?”

“Trevor. My mama says you’re Eric’s boyfriend,” Trevor said.

“I am,” Jack said.

“My mama says we’re not supposed to talk about that.”

Jack shrugged. “It depends what you have to say.”

Trevor shrugged.

“Do you like him?” he asked.

“I like him a lot,” Jack said.

“He’s nice,” Trevor said. “And he always makes the best things to eat.”

“Yes, he does,” Jack said.

“Do you kiss him and stuff? ‘Cause that’s gross.”

“Yes, I do,” Jack said. “Although not much when there are people around.”

Trevor nodded.

“I watched you play hockey on TV,” Trevor said. “My mama wanted to see you. Can you play football too?”

Jack shrugged. “Kind of,” he said. “Not as well as hockey.”

“Wanna play with us?” Trevor said, nodding towards where the rest of the under-12 set were gathering.

“Can Eric play too?” Jack said.

“He’s really fast,” Trevor said. “You can’t be on the same team.”

“OK. I’ll get him,” Jack said.

When he looked up, he caught Eric obviously eavesdropping.

“Is that OK?” Jack asked him. “Do you want to play?”

“Oh, honey, I wouldn’t miss it,” Eric said, setting down the bowl he was holding. “It’s on. Let’s go.”

Trevor claimed Jack for his team, and Eric played with the group captained by 10-year-old Samantha, who was nearly as tall as Trevor and more competitive. 

Jack and Eric kept the game from getting out of hand until Coach called across the yard, “Time to eat, everyone.”

“OK, Coach,” Eric said. “One more play!”

In the huddle, Samantha said, “It’s coming to you, Eric.”

He went down the field a few yards, snagged her pass, and juked around the opposing team’s players. Until Jack caught him around the waist, and instead of tackling him, picked him up and carried him across his own team’s goal line.

“Wait -- does that mean we scored?” Trevor said.

**********************

When Jack woke up on the morning of the Fourth, he thought about sneaking out of bed without waking Eric.

He had to be exhausted after the day before, going from morning to night, running, baking, helping his parents host dozens of people. Jack didn’t think Eric sat down for hours after they stole a few minutes for lunch.

When Jack had seen Eric standing up behind the buffet table, trying to snarf down barbecue and bean salad while keeping the trays of side dishes and salads full, he’d had enough. He pulled a lawn chair to where Moomaw sat ensconced in the shade, then said, loudly enough for most of the relatives to hear: “Eric, come and keep your grandmother company.”

Moomaw caught his eye and said, “Yes, Dicky, come here and tell me all about that bakery of yours.”

Suzanne chimed in, “Oh, Dicky, please sit down and visit. You didn’t come all this way just to work. You and Jack talk to Moomaw.”

Eric had sat long enough to finish his plate and to ask Jack three times if he’d had enough to eat. Jack found himself trying to explain hockey to Moomaw while Eric urged pie on everyone, and then didn’t sit again until everyone was gone.

At least it was a family party, which meant that the aunts insisted on helping clean up and took leftovers home. By 9 p.m., everyone was gone, the canopy was put away, the coolers were draining upside down, the dishwasher was running and Eric was yawning.

It wasn’t long before Coach and Suzanne said goodnight, and Eric suggested that he and Jack enjoy what remained of the evening on the porch swing.

“Tea or beer?” Eric had asked, grabbing a beer for himself.

“Water, if you don’t mind,” Jack said.

“You’re really not a Southerner,” Eric said, shaking his head.

“You were under the impression that I was?”

Then, under the cover of darkness, Eric had curled against Jack’s side as the swing gently swayed back and forth. They watched the fireflies and spoke every so often, about the day just past (“I think you’re Trevor’s hero”) and the day to come, which would feature the town picnic and a concert before everyone went home to prepare for the fireworks.

It was tiring enough for Jack. For Eric, who clearly was nervous, it had to be exhausting. So when Jack woke for his run, he thought about letting Eric sleep in.

But it didn’t work. As soon as Jack tried to extricate himself from where he and his boyfriend were curled together, Eric’s breath hitched and his eyes fluttered open.

“Time to get up already?” he said.

“Sleep,” Jack said.

“No,” Eric said. “Wanna go with.”

And, well, Jack wasn’t going to argue.

When they got back and settled at the table with their water, Eric said, “Today’ll actually be easier. Most everything’s done, and the last few things to bake are prepped and just have to be put in the oven. Mama’ll fry the chicken and get the sides together. The way it works is everybody brings their own main dish, but puts sides and desserts on community tables. You are allowed to serve yourself first if there’s something in particular you want.”

Eric seemed more relaxed, even after showering and putting on khaki shorts and a red, white and blue plaid button-down.

Once they arrived at the community park, Jack helped carry coolers and lawn chairs and get the Bittle family area set up. Eric jumped into arranging food on tables and greeting people -- mostly, it looked like, women who would be contemporaries of his mother, who wanted to see what Eric had baked. Jack had heard Eric talk about his “mom friends.” He hadn’t realized Eric meant it quite so literally.

A few younger people, guys and girls in shorts and T-shirts, approached Eric. He seemed happy to see them, trading hugs and slaps on the back, so Jack hung back, a little way away. Eric turned to look for him, caught his eye and beckoned him over.

“These guys were on the team I played on in high school,” he said. “Casey, Jimmy, Shelby, Claire and Blake, meet Jack Zimmermann.” 

One of the girls -- the one with a dark ponytail, Shelby? -- said, “Eric, my captain. You’ve done well for yourself.”

Eric blushed and giggled and said, “I know.”

“I’m the lucky one,” Jack said.

“Seriously, man, what’s it like playing in the NHL? Lifting the Stanley Cup?” Jimmy said. 

Jack launched into his PR-approved answers. He caught Eric’s fond smile out of the corner of his eye as Eric turned back to the food.

The former hockey players asked Jack all the usual questions (“Who’s the toughest team to play against? The toughest goalie?” “What was it like playing hockey with your dad’s history in the league? Did you ever want to play for one of his team?” “What’s your favorite goal you ever scored?”) and a few less-usual ones (“Have you seen Eric play? He’s fast, isn’t he?” and, from Shelby again, “You’re gonna be good to him, aren’t you?”) while Eric finished arranging the dessert displays into something that met his standards.

Jack answered Shelby’s question with a grin and “I’m sure going to try.” 

He looked up to catch Eric’s eye again, and saw him talking to a young woman with two infants in a double-stroller. Jack excused himself from the hockey players and headed back towards Eric, who was cooing over the babies, decked out in matching headbands with red, white and blue rosettes.

“This one’s Melanie, and this one’s Ashley,” the girl was saying. 

“Still a fan of ‘Gone with the Wind,’ then,” Eric said.

The girl shrugged and laughed. “I liked the names,” she said. “And Marcus didn’t hate them.”

“How is Marcus?” Eric asked.

“He’s good,” she said. 

“He’s treating you right, Tiff?” Eric said. “You staying by him or with your mother?”

“Oh, he likes me to be with him,” the girl (Tiff? Tiffany?) said. Jack decided this was a conversation he should probably not force his way into.

“He said maybe we could get married at Christmas,” she continued.

“Maybe, huh?” Eric said. “Make sure you make up your own mind, OK?”

From his perspective a dozen feet away, Jack saw a large man approaching Tiffany (was that her name?) from behind. He was not quite as tall as Tater, but definitely as wide. And nowhere near as fit.

“You’re Coach Bittle’s kid, right?” he said, wrapping a possessive arm around Tiffany.

Eric’s spine had stiffened, and Jack stepped closer as Eric nodded.

“They gay one, right? I guess it’s alright for Tiffany to be talking to you.”

“I guess Tiffany can talk to who she wants,” Eric said.

“No offense, little guy. Just, y’know, don’t turn the babies gay,” he said 

Jack rested his hand on Eric’s back.

“Who’re your friends?” he asked.

“Uh, this is Tiffany -- we did home ec together in high school,” Eric said. “And her daughters, Melanie and Ashley. This is Jack Zimmermann.”

“You’re the boyfriend,” Marcus broke in. “You play hockey, right? Who’d’ve thought the little Bittle kid would end up with someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” Jack said, a layer of steel under the pleasant tone.

“You know, someone who’s not --” Marcus lifted his hand and let it fall as his wrist bent.

“No, I don’t know,” Jack said. “Ready to find your folks, Eric?”

“Um, yeah. Just get yourself a slice of that pie first,” Eric said to Jack. “Nice seeing you, Tiff. Look, if you need anything, get my email from my mom, OK?”

******************

It hadn't gone badly, and if this was his reward, Eric would happily have done it all over again.

He settled his back against Jack’s chest, his head on Jack’s shoulder, ready to look up at the night sky. There was a cooler next to them, stocked with beer and water, blankets under them in the bed of the truck and no one else anywhere he could see.

Jack’s left hand was settled around Eric’s middle, keeping him close, while the fingers of Jack’s right hand drew patterns on the skin of Eric's thigh, just where his shorts ended.

Eric felt safe and warm and loved and so tired.

“You OK, _lapinou?”_ Jack asked when Eric’s head fell back more heavily.

_“Lapinou?”_ Eric said. “That's French, right? What does it mean? You calling me a cabbage again, Mr. Zimmermann?”

“If you want me to, _p’tit chou,”_ Jack said, chuckling against Eric's ear. “It means little rabbit, or more like bunny rabbit.” 

Jack paused.

“It sounded better in French. But I was thinking about Señor Bun and how important he is to you..”

“Lord, I was so embarrassed when you found him,” Eric said.

“No reason to be embarrassed, _lapinou.”_

“It does sound better in French.”

“Was it always like this here?” Jack said.

“Like what?” Eric said.

“Like you're always on a tightrope? Like you can't put a foot wrong, or everything will come tumbling down?”

“Listen to you, getting all poetic,” Eric said.

Jack was quiet until Eric sighed.

“When I lived here, I wasn't out, and I certainly wasn't dating anyone,” he said. “That didn't stop people from making assumptions, and as much as I wanted to be able to throw them in their faces and say they were wrong, they weren't.”

“So you wanted to be straight?”

“Not really. I just didn't want to be different,” Eric said.

“I get that,” Jack said. “I used to think that everything would be perfect if people could just treat me the same as the rest of my team.”

“But it’s complicated, because I didn't want to be like them either,” Eric said. “I mean, no one forced me into figure skating, but I loved it -- when I was on the ice at least. Anyway, the people who liked me, they were the ones who ignored the fact that I was the way I was, and I guess maybe coming back here, now that the whole world knows, I felt like it would be like me telling them they were wrong all along? And the people who made fun of me and pushed me into the lockers were right?”

Eric pulled his head from Jack’s shoulder and looked down at his own hands, at his fingers twisting together. 

“But the ones who were nice to me still are, and the ones that weren't are still assholes. Sorry for exposing you to them.”

“Hey, Eric, no. None of that's your fault,” Jack said. “There’s assholes everywhere, but it seems like maybe there's a lot here. And I think it's amazing that you are so strong and so smart and so kind despite them.”

“I wasn't really, though,” Eric said. “It wasn't until college that I said I was gay out loud for the first time.”

“But you survived to make it to college, and you were brave enough to go somewhere different and to grow and thrive when you got there,” Jack said. “You're actually really amazing.”

Eric scoffed, still looking down.

“I'm not the only one who thinks so,” Jack said. “It seems like half a dozen people made a point of telling me how special you are, and how they have your back.”

Eric turned to look at Jack. “I'm not some blushing maiden who needs to be protected,” he said, but he laughed, too. 

“No one said you were,” Jack said. “But your grandmother very sweetly wondered if I was good enough for you. Shelby asked me if I was being good to you. And your dad --”

“Coach said something to you?”

“He said you seem happier than he's ever seen,” Jack said. “He looked at me very seriously and said he'd hate for anyone to spoil that.” 

Eric turned his head to try to bury his face in the crook Jack’s neck, despite the first explosions of red and green and 

“Lord, I'm sorry,” he said. 

“Don't be,” Jack said. “I like seeing you happy too.”

Eric raised his face to kiss Jack, long and sweet and slow. When it ended, he sighed “This boy,” and turned back to watch the fireworks with Jack warm and solid at his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Canadian Thanksgiving in Montreal


	3. Canadian Thanksgiving: Oct. 8-9, Montréal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Eric visit Jack's parents for Thanksgiving. Much bonding and communication ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, warning for homophobia -- in this case, discussions of what happened when Jack and Eric were outed months earlier. No explicit slurs or even detailed descriptions of what was said, just the fact that things were said.  
> But also lots of fluff and cooking and bonding between Eric and Alicia, so there's that.  
> I'm posting this more quickly than usual because, well, it was done. The next chapter will be next week sometime. I think.

Jack started scanning the arrivals area at Trudeau for his father as soon as he stepped into it. He'd had to get up absurdly early to make the flight from Ottawa, and he wondered again if it was worth it.

He could have flown with the team back to Providence last night -- getting in just about the time he had to wake up to get to the airport this morning -- and spent Eric’s two days off at home with him.

But when his parents had invited them -- both of them -- for Thanksgiving, Eric had been so excited to celebrate “Canadian Thanksgiving,” as he insisted on calling it.

“Our Thanksgiving came first,” Jack had pointed out time and again. 

“But we live in the U.S.,” Eric responded.

The schedule was complicated by the Falconers’ opening game in Ottawa on the Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend, Eric’s determination to not leave the bakery in Dex’s hands any more than necessary and Eric’s desire to help cook. The way it worked out, Eric had arrived in Montréal the night before, but Jack was stuck in Ottawa until morning.

He’d caught a 6:20 flight, landing just after 7 a.m., and he wanted nothing more than to curl up with Eric and sleep another three or four hours.

Instead, his dad was picking him up (so Eric could sleep? start cooking?). Jack did not resent that his boyfriend had left work the afternoon before, gone home to pack, driven to the airport and arrived in Montréal to have dinner with his parents and catch almost all of Jack’s game. He did not resent that Eric had been in bed by midnight, probably 11:30, and gotten a full night’s sleep. 

And still Jack was being met by his dad. Who was great. Who was a local hero, practically a national hero, who loved Jack unconditionally and had stood behind him no matter what. 

But his father wasn’t Eric. Eric who worked hard, who accommodated himself to Jack’s schedule, who took care of him in so many ways. Who deserved to sleep late on the two days a week he didn’t open Sugar ‘n’ Spice. Whom Jack couldn’t really resent if he tried.

Jack caught sight of his father -- baseball cap pulled down over sunglasses -- leaning against a pillar, his head cocked to the side like he was listening to someone. Jack took a hopeful step nearer, trying to see who his dad was talking to. First there was the top of a blue beanie (Really? It was above seven degrees), then the sparkle of the morning sun off bright blond hair and shining brown eyes looking earnestly at his dad while he talked.

Jack could tell the instant Eric caught sight of him, straightening up with face splitting in a wide grin. He didn’t call out -- they tried not to draw too much attention in public -- but as Jack approached, Eric stepped into a tight embrace and reached up to kiss his cheek.

“Hi, there, sugar,” he whispered. “I missed you.”

“I was only gone two nights,” Jack said.

“Still missed you.”

Jack let him go and turned to hug his father.

 _“Salut, Papa,”_ he said. “Thanks for coming.”

“Eric would have come on his own, but he didn’t want to drive an unfamiliar car to the airport,” his father said. “I know you’d rather have him to yourself.”

“No, it’s good to see you,” Jack said. “I didn’t think Eric was going to come at all.”

“Well, we’re not eating until this afternoon, so when Eric found out the turkey wouldn’t have to go in the oven until 11:30 or so, he decided to surprise you,” his dad said, turning to lead the way to the car.

“Surprise,” Eric said. “How’re you doing? Need a nap when you get home?”

“Yes,” Jack said. “But not too long. How was it staying with my parents?”

“Oh, Jack, their kitchen is lovely. You never told me! I’ve always wanted a double oven.”

“How many ovens do you have at the bakery?”

“That’s different,” Eric said. “Anyway, your mom and dad and I have divvied everything up and checked the supplies and I think we’ll be good.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Take a nap,” Eric said. “Then you can keep me company? Your dad’s doing the turkey and stuffing, I have the pies, sweet potatoes, brussels sprouts and rolls, and your mom volunteered to put the salad together if I make the dressing. Maybe you can help her set the table? You need to rest.”

“Fine,” Jack said. “But at least lay down with me for a little while?”

“I think I have an hour or so,” Eric said. “I stayed up after dinner last night to do the prep work.”

***************************

Eric padded into the kitchen, yawning. 

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Alicia said, from her spot by the sink. “Again. Good nap?”

“Mmmm,” Eric said. “Jack’s still out. How much time do we have?”

“About two hours until the turkey has to go in,” Alicia said.

“And I don’t even have to time it to get the pies done first because there are two ovens. May I take a picture for my Instagram?”

“Have at it," Alicia smiled. “I’m just glad we’ll be getting to use the kitchen to its capacity. And that you talked Bob out of deep-frying the turkey.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve seen one too many turkey-fryer explosions,” Eric said. “And I’m pretty sure Bob wants to keep his eyebrows. Not to mention that cedar siding.”

“I think I have all the good dishes washed and ready to use. I’ll get Bob to help get the serving dishes down,” Alicia said. “We keep a lot of them up in the high cupboards.”

“Perfect,” Eric said, pulling a pad of sticky notes towards him. “I’ll get the labels ready.”

As he started writing each dish on a separate slip of paper, he said, “I have to thank you for rescheduling your Thanksgiving for us. It’s much easier if we can leave tomorrow during the day instead of flying late at night, especially with Jack’s home opener on Tuesday.”

“Oh, it’s not really a big deal,” Alicia said. “It’s not like American Thanksgiving when everyone has to have the big meal on Thursday. Here, maybe because the actual holiday is the last day of the weekend, a lot of people move the celebration to Sunday, or even Saturday. Or people just use the weekend for a getaway.”

“Huh,” Eric said. “Every time we talk about it, Jack makes a big deal of telling me Canadian Thanksgiving was first, like it’s a huge thing. At least y’all don’t have fights about how soon after dinner it’s appropriate to shop.”

Alicia laughed.

“No,” she said. “Although there is football on Monday afternoon. And the game is always here in Montréal. It’s kind of strange, because the _jour de l'Action de grâce_ is kind of less of a big deal in Quebec than in the rest of the country.”

“Can I ask you something?” Eric said.

“Go ahead,” Alicia answered, stopping to look at him.

“How did you decide?” he asked.

“Decide what?” she asked. 

“To move here and have this life,” Eric asked. “I mean, you were a celebrity in your own right. You had a life in New York, you had your degree. You’re an American. But you ended up here in Montréal with Bob and Jack, and you’ve been here for what, 30 years?”

“Not exactly here,” Alicia said. “We bought this house after Jack got out of rehab and went to Europe. But in this area, yes. I like it here. Want another cup of coffee?”

“Sure,” Eric said. “I’ll get it. One for you, too?”

Alicia nodded.

“Montréal was always Bobby’s home,” she said. “And he was playing here when we started dating, so I would come here often to watch him play, when I didn’t have my own commitments. When I did, and his schedule allowed it, Bobby would come and visit me in New York or Los Angeles or wherever I happened to be. But there were times when I was doing less modeling and more acting and I’d be on a shoot and he’d be in the middle of his season and we wouldn’t see each other for weeks. I’d miss him so much, and when I was done, I’d come to Montréal to see him, because I didn’t have a place that I was so attached to. I’d left my own hometown for work years earlier, and I couldn’t even really stay in the Boston area after college.”

She took a sip of her coffee.

“Then after we got married, Bob was traded to Pittsburgh,” she said. “He wasn’t sure he wanted to go, but the Canadiens wanted to rebuild and needed the money they were paying him, and the Penguins needed what he could do, and he always loved Mario. We kept the house we had here, but I moved with him to the condo he rented in Pittsburgh. Then I got pregnant with Jack, and Bobby asked if I wanted to buy a house there and make that home.

“I thought about it, I really did,” she said. “But this was already home. It was where Bobby and I fell in love. I’m sorry. That sounds sappy.”

“Please don’t apologize,” Eric said. "That sounds sweet."

“We knew Bob would be retiring within a few years, and I’d stopped working so much to concentrate on the foundations I was involved with, so I could live anywhere, and I told him I wanted our home to be here,” she said. “Jack was born here -- it was the off-season, after all -- but we still spent the hockey season in Pittsburgh until Bobby retired. That was right when Jack was getting ready to start school, so it worked out.”

She shrugged.

“It wasn’t like Bob told me we had to stay here,” she said. “And for what it’s worth, no matter where his career takes him, I don’t think Montréal is home for Jack anymore. It’s where he’s from. Providence is home now, after the last eight years. It’s where he became the man that he is.”

“Thanks,” Eric said. “I know it’s not really my business. But I know Jack might get traded one of these years, and I could probably get a job anywhere, but --”

“But you’re attached to your bakery?”

“It’s not mine, really, but yes. I know it’s not a big deal like playing hockey, but it’s important to me.”

“Of course it is,” Alicia said. “And that bakery is more yours than anyone else’s. Have you thought about buying Matthew out? You know you could keep the space.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Eric said. “But I can’t afford it, not yet. Maybe in a few years? I feel like I should take some business classes or something first.”

“If it’s just the knowledge and not the degree you want, Bobby and I could probably set you up with some people to help,” Alicia.

“And Jack could get traded,” Eric said. “Then what would I do?”

“Whatever you decide at the time,” Alicia said. “But you’d be able to figure it out.”

 

**********************

When Jack woke up, it took a moment for him to remember where he was. Montréal. His parents’ house. In what passed for his room, although he’d never really lived here. Eric was here. Somewhere. The pillow smelled like him.

He checked his phone for the time. 11:45. Thanksgiving. Cooking. Still time for a workout before dinner.

He got up, brushed his teeth and drank a glass of water. He pulled on shorts and T-shirt and then headed to the kitchen.

Eric was standing at the sink at the island, doing something with Brussels sprouts. The mingled aromas of turkey and pumpkin and apple pies made Jack’s mouth water. He detoured from his path to the fridge to come up behind Eric and nuzzle into the back of his neck.

“I’m not sure what smells better, you or dinner,” Jack said.

Eric wiggled his hips a bit, which felt wonderful, but said, “Hush, you. Your parents will be back any minute.”

Jack stepped back and said, “Have you eaten? I was going to get some apples and peanut butter and head to the weight room. Want some?”

“Sure, I'll have a couple,” Eric said.

They worked companionably, Jack slicing apples and Eric cleaning sprouts.

When Jack’s parents came in, his father bearing the dedicated and decorated turkey platter they found in the basement storage room, Jack was smearing peanut butter on slices of apple and hand-feeding them to Eric. He couldn't help but notice his parents’ delighted smiles.

“OK, Eric, I'm gonna get a quick workout in, then I'll come help for real,” he said, kissing a stray bit of peanut butter off Eric’s lip.

“Mind if I keep you company downstairs?” his father asked. “The turkey’s in the oven and the dressing is all ready to go in.”

“Why isn't it in the bird?” Jack asked. “Isn't that how you usually do it?”

“Eric was too concerned about food safety,” his dad said, making air quotes on the last two words.

“Seriously, it's a wonder y'all haven't been killed by food poisoning,” Eric said. “Do I need to print out some materials on bacterial growth and temperature for you?”

In the weight room, Jack set the pin on the weight stack to start bench presses and turned to his dad. “Not that you're not welcome,” he said, “but was there something you wanted to talk about?”

“Not in particular,” Bob said. “But your mom and Eric have been thick as theives up there. I think they're bonding over being NHL significant others. I thought it would be good to stay out of the way.”

“Eric and I aren't married,” Jack said.

“Neither were your mother and I, at first,” Bob said.

Jack lay on his back and started lifting. 

Bob watched him, and said, “It's totally up to the two of you, of course, but if you and Eric wanted to get married, we'd be behind you.”

Jack let the weights down and paused.

“We've only known each other a year,” he said. “Eric’s only 23.”

He started lifting again.

“I don't know if that would be good for him, to make that kind of commitment so young,” he continued. “I know I wouldn't have been ready then.”

“So you have thought about it,” his father said. “And Eric’s his own man. He's a lot more put together than most of us are at his age. He seemed to deal with being outed pretty well last spring. So did you, for that matter. After Kent, I was worried.”

Jack brought the weights down and reset the machine for the shoulder press.

“Kent was a lifetime ago,” he said. “We were kids. But this spring … I mean, I knew it could happen. We weren't being very careful.”

He settled himself on the bench again. 

“You’re right, though. At first I was upset, with it coming right when playoffs were starting,” Jack said. “I thought it would be a distraction, even though I knew my team was behind me. But with everyone focusing on trying to win the series, there wasn't a lot of talk on the ice or anything. Now everyone’s had the summer to get used to it. It turned out to be pretty ideal.”

He didn't say anything about the handful of less-than-kind signs he'd seen at the arena in Ottawa. None of them lasted long -- security seemed to be on the lookout for them -- and they wouldn't have been shown on TV. The rainbow flags had been much in evidence, though.

“I guess I can see how that could happen,” his father said, “although I doubt it would have worked that way when I was in the league. You played well, in any case.”

Jack grunted an acknowledgement and started another set.

***********************

Alicia cleared the coffee cups and prep dishes Eric was no longer using into the dishwasher and watched Eric divide dough into individual rolls for their second rise. They would go in the oven as soon as the pies came out.

“We've never had rolls from scratch before,” she said. “It always seemed like too much work, especially with so much else going on in the kitchen.”

“It's not bad,” Eric said. “You just need to be organized. Two ovens helps a lot, of course, and you have so much space here, it's really pretty easy.”

“That's what you say,” Alicia said, pulling a bottle of wine from the rack. “Can you take a break?”

“I'm not sure how that will help my organization, but one glass won't hurt,” Eric said.

Eric didn't actually take a break, but he did sip at his glass as he kept moving, from one dish to another, checking the turkey, sliding the baking dish of dressing in with it, checking the progress of the sweet potatoes, pulling heavy cream and a chilled mixing bowl from the fridge. As the level in his glass decreased, the sway in his hips increased, and when the wine was gone, he was positively dancing to the music that came from the speaker on the counter.

Alicia couldn't help but smile at the boy who had brought so much sunshine into Jack’s life.

“I feel terrible,” she said, knowing she sounded entirely too happy for Eric to take her seriously. “We invited you for Thanksgiving and you're doing all the work. I guess we can't count you as a guest.”

“Mm,” Eric made an inquiring noise while he evaluated the consistency of the cream. “I'm sorry to take over so much.”

“No, don't say that,” she said. “It’s just, if you’re not a guest, you’re family.”

Eric went still for a moment, and his cheeks turned even pinker. Gotcha, Alicia thought.

“That’s really nice of you to say,” he said. “Y’know, my mother was tickled that I met you. She wanted to know all about you, and I told how friendly you are.”

“I wondered,” Alicia said. “I got a package with some delicious cookies and a nice note, and I sent her a thank-you note with my email address, but I haven’t heard any more from her.”

“Lord, she’s probably just embarrassed,” Eric said. “Tell me your favorites, and she’ll make those for you. Or tell her. I’ll give you her email and once she gets used to the idea that you’re like, an actual human being --”

“One who really can’t cook.”

“-- she’ll take pity on you and send more.”

He set the bowl of whipped cream back in the refrigerator and said, “Unless you’d rather not? There’s nothing that says you and my mother have to be in contact just because Jack and me are dating, and you know I’d be happy to send you whatever.”

“No, Eric, of course I’d like to get to know your mother. She must be lovely, to have raised you so well. And I know very well that you have your hands full, what with the bakery and the skating and all.”

“And dating an NHL star?” Eric said.

“It can get time-consuming,” Alicia said. “I’ve been there.”

“That’s true,” Eric said. “I never realized how many people would seek me out because people know I’m Jack Zimmermann’s boyfriend. I had one guy in the bakery who wanted me to tell Jack how they could have a better power play. I mean, really.”

Alicia laughed.

“Believe me, I know,” she said. “And I didn’t even know anything about hockey when I got together with Bobby. But at least I had my own people to run interference for me. You have to deal with the public all the time, and everyone knows where to find you.”

“Mostly it’s fine,” Eric shrugged.

Alicia poured Eric another half-glass of wine and arranged her face in an encouraging expression.

“Providence is a big Falcs town, and Jack’s a local hero, so most people are pretty positive,” Eric said. “I think a lot of them come to the bakery just because they hope they’ll catch a glimpse of him, y’know?”

He took a gulp of the wine.

“It was worse last spring,” he said. “When people first found out. There were a couple of people who just wouldn’t leave me alone. Kept asking rude questions. One accused me of turning Jack gay. Maybe Jack could turn a straight man gay, but me?”

“Eric,” Alicia tried to break in.

“And he’s not even gay, not that anyone wants to hear that, or deserves to know anyway,” Eric continued.

“Eric, did you tell Jack?”

Eric looked horrified at the thought.

“I couldn’t,” he said. “It was playoffs.”

He shook his head.

“Jack was so busy, and when he was home, he was exhausted,” Eric said. “I couldn’t make him worry. It’s not like he could have done anything.”

“Did you talk to Georgia Martin, or anyone in Falconers’ management?”

“It wasn’t really their problem,” Eric said.

“So what did you do?”

“Well, Chowder and Dex and Derek Nurse all started staying pretty much all day, and one of them would walk me home every afternoon,” Eric said. “Which they didn’t have to do, but was nice anyway. I, uh, got to know my local police real well. They would hang around at opening and closing.”

“Did you have to call the police?” Alicia said.

“There was some graffiti, a couple of times,” Eric said. “But we got it off right away, before anyone saw it. That stuff died down after a couple of weeks, though. Now it’s mostly just fans.”

“I’m glad it got better,” Alicia said, trying to keep her voice measured. “But I really think you should tell Jack.”

“Tell me what?” 

Jack was in the doorway, wiping his face with a towel.

 

*************************

“It’s nothing, really,” Eric said, as Jack stood watching him.

His cheeks were pink, and he wasn’t meeting Jack’s eyes, almost like he was guilty about something. Something Jack’s mother thought he should know.

“No, there’s something,” Jack said, still standing in the door. “Please tell me.”

“It’s just about how people would come around, you know, last April,” Eric said.

“What people? Come around where?” Jack said, stepping into the kitchen and leaning against one of the stools at the island. He was pretty sure he wasn’t going to like where this was going. 

“People who weren’t very nice,” Eric said. “They knew I worked at Sugar ‘n’ Spice.”

“What did they do?”

“It’s nothing,” Eric said again. “No one hurt me.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s nothing,” Jack said. “ _Crisse,_ Eric, if someone is threatening you, you have to tell me.”

“But no one is threatening me now,” Eric said. “It was six months ago. It’s over.”

“But we still need to talk about it,” Jack insisted.

“Fine, but I still need to get dinner on the table,” Eric said. “Go take a shower and then we can talk while we cook.”

Jack shook his head and left. It was only when he had to squeeze past his father in the doorway that he realized his dad heard everything too. And Jack had just been congratulating himself on how well things went, too.

He may have taken a little longer in the shower than usual, trying to calm himself by focusing on his breathing. He’d been with Eric most of a year, and he knew that if he sounded like he was angry at Eric, Eric would clam up. It had only happened a couple of times, but the sight of Eric like that -- curling in on himself, like he could make himself invisible -- it broke Jack’s heart. And he wasn’t truly angry with Eric. He was angry with himself for not noticing what was happening.

When he stepped back into the kitchen, Eric was pulling pies out of the oven.

He stopped to adjust the oven temperature, and then said, “Can you hand me those trays of rolls?” and slid them in.

Then he went to where the sweet potatoes were waiting, poured in some warm milk and started mashing, his back to Jack.

‘“Eric?”

“I’m sorry, Jack,” Eric said, still without looking at him. “I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you, at least, not forever. But you were busy with the playoffs, and really nothing bad happened. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Why don’t you start by telling me what did happen?”

“There were just some guys who would come to the bakery and be rude,” Eric said. “We made it a point to always have at least three people there, so when we asked them to leave, they did. But then they started following me and yelling things at me when I left. One of them kept asking how I turned you gay, if you can imagine.”

He gave a weak chuckle.

“But that didn’t really work for them either, because, well, yelling stuff like that doesn’t get a lot of positive attention, at least in that neighborhood of Providence, which makes it light years ahead of high school for me,” Eric said. “So then there was some stuff painted on our windows, and Chowder insisted we call the police before we washed it off. When I explained what was going on, they started making sure someone was on the block when we opened and when we closed.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t know,” Jack said.

“It’s not your fault,” Eric said. “I didn’t tell you. You had enough to deal with. And it was pretty much over by the time your season ended.”

“I still should have known,” Jack said. “But my mom’s right -- you should have told me. And if not me, someone from the team, or even my parents. You don’t have to deal with stuff like this alone.”

“It’s nothing to do with you,” Eric said. “It’s not your fault. And I wasn’t alone. I had the guys from the bakery.”

“It’s because of me, Eric,” Jack said. “I’d say it has something to do with me. I didn’t think that being public about us could be dangerous to you.”

Eric drizzled some maple syrup over the potatoes, and resumed mashing.

“I didn’t take any of it as particularly dangerous,” Eric said. “Nobody said anything I haven’t heard before. It honestly wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be.”

“You expected this to happen?” Jack asked.

Eric just looked at him.

“I guess you’re right,” Jack sighed. “I’m more insulated. What do you want to do?”

Eric shrugged.

“Can’t put the genie back in the bottle,” he said. “So I suggest we eat dinner, and give thanks for what we have, and go for a walk later, and absolutely do not play any board games with your parents tonight.”

Jack couldn’t suppress a smile.

“Sounds like a plan,” he said. “And you’ll tell me if something like that happens again, right?”

An hour later, Jack looked around the table at his parents and his boyfriend and a truly impressive spread.

“Let me go first this year,” he said. “I’m thankful for the people who love me, who stand behind me no matter what, who encourage me to keep moving forward, and who let me love them back, even when I’m not sure how. Papa, Maman, you were always there for me, even when I tried to push you away, and I’m grateful. And I’m grateful that you still like me and want me around after all that. And Eric, words can’t express how happy I am that you’re in my life, and that you let me be in your life. You’ve spent this past year teaching me about love and care and how to express that, because you care about everyone, and you love me, and you taught me how to love you, and I can’t imagine a gift more precious.”

After they’d all taken their turns, Jack got a picture of the table, carefully set and loaded with food, his parents’ and Eric’s joined hands just visible at the edge. He waited until after dinner to post it to his Instagram account. _#Givingthanks._


	4. Nov. 23: American Thanksgiving, Providence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric and Jack host American Thanksgiving in Providence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still don't own any of these lovely characters, still not beta'd, so please let me know if I need to fix something (I'll be grateful, I promise! Orangepencils, if you tell me where you are I will seriously send you baked goods).  
> Much less angst this time around.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Eric said, bouncing on the balls of his feet while he waited for the traffic light to change. “Do you know what day it is?”

“Thursday,” Jack said. “I heard something about a holiday imitating Thanksgiving? But it’s six weeks too late.”

“Hush, you,” Eric said, taking off across the street as soon as the light was green. “It’s Thanksgiving morning and we’re hosting dinner for 12 and I’m out running instead of getting ready.”

“It’s 6 a.m.,” Jack said. “Dinner’s at 4. You’ve been preparing all week. And if you didn’t get out now you probably wouldn’t get any fresh air at all.”

“Dinner’s at 4, but people are coming for nibbles at 3,” Eric said. “We have to be presentable -- us and your apartment -- by then.”

“You remember who we’re having over, right?” Jack said. “Let’s see: three professional hockey players who aren’t from America, so they won’t care if every little thing is perfect. Three of your college hockey teammates and the manager, who lived in a house that was the next thing from falling down, according to your description. Not likely to be shocked by a dirty dish in the sink. And three guys who work with you making and serving food, and might actually be helpful.”

“Oh my gosh, I just realized, Lardo’s the only woman,” Eric said. “Jack, why don’t we know more women?” 

“Lardo managed a hockey team, and she’ll be with Shitty,” Jack said. “She’ll cope. And we do know women -- they just aren’t social misfits with nowhere else to go on Thanksgiving.”

“Mr. Zimmermann!” Eric made sure his offended tone came through loud and clear despite his rapid breathing. “Don’t say that about our friends! I’ll have you know that we will serve a meal that would not be anyone’s last choice.”

“Of course we will,” Jack said. “It’s a mile back. Race you.”

They didn’t talk any more until they reached their building, Eric hanging two steps back until they were in sight of the door and then passing Jack just in time to touch the handle first.

“How do you always do that?” Jack groaned. “Don’t you get tired?”

“Not as tired as you, old man,” Eric laughed.

“Is this the first time you haven’t been home for Thanksgiving?” Jack asked while they waited for the elevator.

“Not even close,” Eric said. “Last year, I just cooked for the guys from the bakery, because we were only closed on Thursday and it wouldn’t have made sense to go home for less than 24 hours, even if I could have afforded it. And I made Thanksgiving dinner in the Haus for everyone who didn’t go home my last three years in college.”

“So what are you worried about?” Jack said.

“This is the first time I’m cooking Thanksgiving dinner for grown adults,” Eric said, leaning against the wall. “And it’s the first time we’re getting our friend groups together, at least outside of the Falconers’ locker room.”

“What was that we did with my parents last month?”

“That was their celebration,” Eric said. “Your dad did the turkey and everything.”

“My dad put the turkey in the oven when you told him to and took it out when you told him too,” Jack said.

“He carved,” Eric said.

“As have plenty of men who wouldn’t even know how turn their ovens on,” Jack said. “Besides, what adults? Tater and Poots and Snowy?”

Eric didn’t answer.

“Eric, I’m not sure if you know this, but they all really like you,” Jack said. “You think I got shovel talks from your family? We can’t break up, because if we did, my team would disown me.”

That made Eric chuckle, and he exited the elevator and headed straight to his apartment.

“Go shower,” he told Jack. “I’ll meet you back in your kitchen once I’m clean.”

“Wouldn’t it be more efficient to shower together?” Jack asked.

“No,” Eric said. “Not even a little bit. I’m onto you.”

“Then give me a kiss at least?”

“You’re all sweaty!” Eric said, but he turned back toward Jack anyway. “I’m all sweaty! And we’re in the hallway!”

“Our first kiss was in this hallway,” Jack said, pulling Eric close. 

“Fine,” Eric said, the grumble in his tone belied by the shine in his eyes. He went up on his toes to kiss Jack. It was brief and almost chaste, and when Eric settled back on his heels, Jack’s eyes were just fluttering open.

“See you soon,” he said. 

*******************************

Jack finished toweling his hair and pulled on track pants and a T-shirt. He might not have done Thanksgiving dinner with Eric before, but he’d cooked with him enough to know that comfortable clothes would be necessary, as would another shower. He could shave then, too.

Besides, after the playoffs last year, he suspected Eric liked his face a bit scruffy.

He hung the towel on the bathroom door -- he could use it again later -- and made the bed and tidied the bedroom, as he always did when they were expecting guests. You never knew when someone would need to use the bathroom when the guest one was occupied, or even when someone might want to lie down for a few moments.

When he emerged, Eric was sitting at his table with coffee and a bagel and a banana, a notebook open in front of him.

“You need some protein,” Jack said.

“I’m cooking two 16-pound turkeys later,” Eric said.

“And you need some protein now,” Jack said. “I’ll scramble some eggs.”

He broke two whole eggs into a dish, then added the whites of four more, putting the yolks into a container and dating it with grease pencil Eric had installed in a holder on the refrigerator. Whisking them with a little milk and salt and pepper only took a moment, and he was setting a steaming plate in front of Eric five minutes later. Jack carried over his own plate, with eggs and toast made from Eric’s whole wheat bread, and prepared to listen.

“If we want to eat at 4, the turkey should come out of the oven at 3:30 or so,” Eric said. “I’m gonna break the birds down, so I can get all the pieces in the oven here, if we use two roasting pans, but we still need to be ready to put them in -- at least the breasts -- two hours before we want them done. Before that, we should have all the vegetables ready to go, and the pies. I can do two at a time in the oven in my apartment, but it would be nice to get one in here before the turkey. Then when the pies come out down the hall, we can put the dressing in. I think the rolls can go in with that, or at least overlap a bit. The dressing is pretty forgiving on temperature.”

“So what’s first?” Jack said.

“Cubing the bread for the dressing and getting that all together. I wanted to make two kinds. Then the pies -- maple apple, cranberry apple and maple pecan. Then making sure all the vegetables are prepped and breaking down the turkeys,” Eric said.

“Why are we cutting the turkey up first again?” Jack said.

“Because it cooks faster and we can start the breast first, and then add the thighs and legs later so it’s all cooked more evenly,” Eric said. “Don’t worry, there’ll still be plenty of drippings for gravy.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Jack said. “About that. I am a bit disconcerted by the amount of butter in my fridge.”

From that moment on, it seemed like Eric never stopped moving. Jack had seen him like this before, of course, but it was impressive nonetheless. Bread was toasted and cubed and mixed with flavorings and stock, sausage was browned and crumbled for one batch of dressing, dough for rolls was kneaded and set to rise, potatoes and carrots were cleaned, pie crusts were rolled and filled.

“Wait, Eric,” Jack said. “We’re not making a pumpkin pie?”

Eric grimaced.

“I have one in my refrigerator from the bakery,” he said. “We can warm it for dessert. But after this week at work, I simply could not face another pumpkin pie. Or turkey-shaped sugar cookie, for that matter.”

Jack -- somewhat reluctantly -- learned to cut a whole turkey into breasts, thighs and legs, and wings, although Eric said the wings weren’t good for anything but stock.

Yellow potatoes were boiled, sweet potatoes scrubbed and baked, cranberries simmered with sugar and orange peel.

Eric went back and forth between kitchens, using Jack’s for prep work and putting finished items on his own counters, shuttling pans between the ovens. Jack just tried to keep up.

At 2 p.m., pies out, turkey and dressing in, potatoes just set to boil, Eric picked up the baking sheet with the rolls and said, “I’m gonna pop these in and shower while they bake. If you wanted shower again, now would be a good time.”

“OK,” Jack said. “I suppose I should shave, too.”

Eric looked at him, ran a hand up his jaw, and said, “Not on my account.”

Maybe not, then.

****************************

“Hot buns, coming through!”

“Holy shit, Bits, is that you? I’m so proud!”

Shitty turned away from Jack’s door as Eric came down the hall from his apartment bearing two large baskets of rolls, each covered with a linen napkin.

“Did you hear that, Lardo? Our Bitty and the double entendre.”

Shitty pretended to wipe a tear from his eye.

Lardo reached up to knock, but Eric said, “It should be open.”

Then he remembered that Jack was going to shower too.

“Um, here, hold one of these?” He thrust a basket into Lardo’s arms and pulled Jack’s door open part way. He stuck his head in, heard Jack moving around the dining table, and opened the door all the way.

“Shitty and Lardo are here,” he announced.

Jack came to meet them at the door, taking coats and offering drinks. Shitty handed him a bottle of wine and hefted a case of beer.

“I just put some snacks in the living room,” Jack said. “Make yourselves at home.”

Eric took the coats from Jack and went to lay them on the guest room bed while Jack stowed the drinks.

“Anything we can do, Bits?” Lardo asked.

“Um, maybe set the table?” Eric asked. “The tablecloth and the plates and all are there.”

Eric’s phone buzzed and he found a text from Holster.

“Ransom and Holster are here,” he said. “I’ll call down for Henry to let them in.”

He did, then went and opened Jack’s door and waited for the elevator to arrive. When the door opened, it was’t Ransom and Holster who came out first. It was Poots, Snowy and Tater, with Holster and Ransom bringing up the rear.

Ransom’s mouth hung open as he followed Tater, making Eric smirk.

Tater came right to Eric and surrounded him in a warm embrace.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Eric,” he said, his deep voice and accent making it sound exotic.

“He said happy Thanksgiving!” Ransom was saying in a stage whisper to Holster.

“You, too, Tater,” Eric said. “I hope you like everything. Poots, Snowy, welcome. If you couldn’t be home today, I’m glad you could be with us. Jack’s right inside.”

As soon as the Falconers were inside, Eric found himself sandwiched between the two former Samwell D-men.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Bitty,” Holster said. “It’s been a while.”

“Too long,” Ransom said.

“I’m glad y’all could make it,” Eric said. “I’ve missed you guys. Come on in and get comfortable. I just have a few more things to take care of and we can eat. We’re just waiting on my bakery assistants.”

Eric ushered them in and introduced them to Jack (“Adam Birkholtz, better known as Holster, and Justin Oluransi, usually called Ransom, Jack Zimmermann who has no nickname.”) and went back to the kitchen, putting the salad together and pouring the cranberry sauce into a cut glass bowl. The turkey was almost done, maybe another ten minutes, and the baked sweet potatoes were ready to come out.

His phone buzzed again: Dex, arriving with his roommates and coworkers. Eric called down to the doorman, then said, “Jack, honey, my hands are full. Can you open the door? Dex just texted that they’re here.”

Jack left Tater with Ransom and Holster to explain the rules of American football and headed to the door. 

The three young workers came up together.

“Hey, Jack,” Chowder said. “Everything OK? Sorry we’re late.”

“You’re fine,” Jack said. “Eric says everything is almost ready. Let me have your coats.”

Derek Nurse handed him flowers.

“My mom always said never to show up empty handed,” he said. “And none of us can buy liquor yet, so.”

“Uh-huh,” Jack said, remembering that Poots was underage in the U.S., too. “I think we have a selection of sparking water.”

“Oh, hush, Jack,” Eric said from the kitchen. “The boys can have a glass of wine with dinner if they want. They won’t get drunk.”

“Yes, mom,” Dex said.

“Now you hush,” Eric said.

“Seriously, what can we do?” Dex said.

“Dex, sweetheart, it’s your day off,” Eric said.

“Yours too, Bitty,” Chowder said.

“Fine,” Eric said. “Jack, you entertain our guests, please? Chowder, you start carrying food to the table. Dex, can you slice the turkey while I make the gravy? Nurse, you take the lids off and make sure we have all the serving utensils we need. Maybe see if anyone wants anything besides wine or water to drink?”

“Wait -- I don't get to carve?” Jack said. 

“Honey, it's already in pieces and we're slicing it in the kitchen. It'll be fine.”

They whole group was sitting down at 4:05, and Eric looked around the table at the assembled guests, surprised to realize that all of them were his friends. There were Ransom and Holster, who insisted to the Samwell coaches that he should stay on the team, whose constant but gentle physicality had helped him more than they knew; Shitty, the first person he had ever actually come out to, equal parts enthusiasm for his friends and indignation at the injustices he saw; Lardo, whose quiet presence had been a lifeline for years. They got on with the Falconers like all of them had been teammates, although Ransom seemed a bit starstruck. Which, really, Ransom? One of the most beautiful men Eric had ever met, hockey captain and 4.0 student who was deciding between taking a promotion at his job and applying for med school after a two-year break? His boys -- the bakery staff -- started out quiet, but they were jumping into the conversation as the meal proceeded. And Jack. Beautiful Jack, looking happy and comfortable as he listened to Holster chirp Ransom and Shitty hold forth on the damage toxic notions of masculinity did in professional sports.

He caught Lardo’s eye, returned her silent toast and sipped his wine as he watched them all absolutely demolish the meal he and Jack had worked so hard on.

*********************

Jack couldn’t believe how fast the meal Eric had worked so hard to create was gone.

It wasn’t like everyone shoveled food in their mouths without regard for table manners or ignored conversation. Actually, for a table full of mostly hockey players, they’d been downright civilized, asking for dishes to be passed, chewing with their mouths closed, complimenting the chef.

But still, a scant 30 minutes after Eric had taken his seat -- which was taken as a general signal to begin eating -- plates were empty and the table that Lardo had turned into a work of art was a wreck.

And Eric was jumping up again, starting to collect plates and flatware. “I’ll just put some coffee on, and we can have pie in a little while,” he said. Somehow, his voice was still bright. “Feel free to move into the living room. I’m pretty sure there’s still football on.”

“Why don’t you sit and talk with your friends?” Jack said. “I can get the coffee. You’ve been going since six o’clock.”

“Which is like an hour and a half later than most days,” Eric said. “And you’ve been helping every step of the way.”

“It’s not the same,” Jack said, prepared to insist that offering an extra pair of hands didn’t compare to taking full responsibility for the biggest American meal of the year.

“You make me feel lazy,” Tater said. “Jack, you come turn on coffee. Then you sit down. Poots, you help me clear table. Eric, you do no more work until coffee is ready. Then you cut pie.”

“Who’s the captain here?” Jack said, getting up to start the coffee anyway. “And why just Poots?”

“I’m not telling goalie what to do,” Tater said.

“Fine,” Jack said, fixing a look at Snowy. Snowy and Poots both stood and started picking up plates.

Eric took a seat on the sofa, with Justin and Adam on either side.

“Looks like you found a keeper,” he heard Adam saying.

Jack felt a little smug at that, as he had seen more than a couple of looks directed his way by Adam, who was bigger than Jack and still looked like he was in hockey shape. They weren’t exactly unfriendly looks, more evaluating, Jack thought.

Adam clearly felt protective towards Eric -- Justin too, Jack thought, but that wasn’t as obvious. Eric had told him that both of them insisted that he stay on the hockey team when he was ready to quit because of his fear of being checked, and that the way they acted around him helped him deal with physical contact in daily life.

“It was like they were overgrown puppies,” Eric had explained. “They were obnoxious all the time, not just to me, so it never felt like I was singled out. Even after they found out I was gay.”

Once the coffee maker was gurgling, Tater shooed Jack out of his own kitchen, and Jack went, taking a seat on the floor with his back against Eric’s legs. He let the conversation between Eric and his former captains pass over his head while he listened to Shitty try to get Lardo to talk about the new piece she was working on. She might be almost as reluctant to talk about herself as Eric was.

Listening to them, it struck Jack that both of them sounded like they were from New England. Shitty went to school in Cambridge, and with that accent, he had to be from Boston.

“You guys don’t have family around here?” he asked.

Shitty stopped talking and looked at him. After a pause, he said, “Depends what you mean by family, brah. Sometimes families of choice are the best you can do.”

 _Merde._ That wasn’t a question he should have asked, and his mother would have his head if he knew.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. You don’t have to answer.”

Lardo reached out and nudged his foot with her toe.

“Seems like we invaded your apartment, so it’s only fair, right?” she shrugged. “My family’s Vietnamese, and they celebrate Thanksgiving kind of, but it’s not really such a big thing for them. And they kind of don’t get me, trying to be an artist when I could be a doctor or a nurse or something with a guaranteed paycheck. And I have to open the rink tomorrow, because I gave everyone else the morning off. So it was just easier to stay in Providence, since it wasn’t going to cause any big problems for me to miss dinner with my parents.” 

“And my parents are divorced, and I’m pretty sure each side thinks I’m with the other and is relieved that I’m not with them,” Shitty said. “Works for me, because any meal Bitty cooked is going to be better than whatever caterer they got this year.”

Jack nodded, and said, “Eric said he couldn’t go home because he has to work tomorrow.”

“Dude,” Lardo said. “If you don’t know this yet, maybe I shouldn’t tell you, but Bits is home. He didn’t go to his parents because you were going to be here.”

*************************

By 8:30 p.m., everyone had gone home, the last load of dishes was in the dishwasher and everything else was washed and put away.

Eric curled in the corner of Jack’s couch with a slice of pecan pie -- his second of the day, but as dinner fell at 4 p.m., he hadn’t had supper, so he thought he was entitled.

Jack was half-lying across the couch, his toes pressed up against Eric’s thighs.

“Tired?” he asked.

“Mmm,” Eric said. “A bit. It wasn’t really that much more than a day at work, to be honest. Just a little more … I don’t know.”

“Different because it’s Thanksgiving and it’s a big deal?”

“Not really,” Eric said. “More just the people?”

“I thought I was the one who didn’t like people,” Jack said, deadpan.

Eric tickled his foot in retaliation.

“I want to do a good job for them,” Eric said. 

“You know my whole team likes you,” Jack said. “And I’m pretty sure your friends do too.”

Eric groaned and put his plate to the side.

“I know, I know,” he said. “But it’s been months since I’ve seen Ransom and Holster, and it was the first time they met you, and what if they changed? What if they thought I changed too much? And maybe I shouldn’t have invited Shitty and Lardo. Maybe then they would have gone to their folks. But I know Shitty really doesn’t like spending time with his family, and Lardo wanted to stay close to home.”

Jack sat up a bit more and opened his arms, and Eric crawled over to him so Jack could wrap him up.

“I know everything went fine,” Eric said. “And I had a good time, a great time, even. I didn’t notice any drama to speak of, and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. And it was different the way everyone looked like a grown-up, with slacks and shirts that matched and shoes that weren’t sneakers. I didn’t even have to tell Shitty to wear pants, and no one suggested playing flip-cup. But it was OK. They still all seemed like themselves. I don’t know your teammates as well, of course, but they looked comfortable, too, so that was nice.”

Jack nodded. Eric had looked happy, watching everyone tuck into the food and then relax together.

“It’s just when it’s over, I don’t know, I get kind of melancholy, I guess?” Eric said. “It’ll pass. I’m sorry.”

“Hush, _lapinou,”_ Jack said. “It was the best American Thanksgiving I’ve ever had, and I’ve got the biggest thing I’m thankful for right here.”

He squeezed Eric tighter for a moment.

“It’s hard when things change, even when you want them to,” Jack said. “The new thing can be good, can be just what you wanted, but it’s still different.”

“What do you mean?” Eric asked.

“Last year at Thanksgiving, you were just my blond cute neighbor who I spent way too much time wondering about,” Jack said. “Now you’re my boyfriend, and we’ve met each other’s parents, and we’re introducing our friends. It’s a lot, eh?”

“Yes,” Eric said. “Last year at this time I was trying desperately not to think about having to find someplace else to live. I think I displaced those thoughts by dwelling on the gorgeous hockey player who lived down the hall.”

“See? Some things are the same,” Jack said. “I still have a cute blond neighbor, and you still have a gorgeous hockey player living down the hall.”

Eric giggled and reached up to kiss Jack’s chin, rubbing his lips lightly against the stubble he found there. “More gorgeous every day,” he said. “And pretty smart too.”

“I’ve had lots of therapy,” Jack said. “It helps.”

Jack adjusted his position so he could kiss Eric properly, then kissed behind his ear in the place that always made Eric shiver, and down his neck.

“Y’know, you don’t have to wait for an invitation to stay here,” Jack said. 

“I live just down the hall,” Eric said. “And I have to be up early.”

Eric moved to expose his neck a little more.

“I know,” Jack said, kissing at the other side. “But that’s too far. And I probably won’t see you all day tomorrow anyway. We’re taking a team bus up to Boston in time to get there for morning skate, and we won’t be back until late. Stay, please?” He lowered his voice into a seductive tone. “I’ll be very grateful.”

Eric couldn’t choke back a laugh at that.

“Enough,” he said. “I’ll stay. Lord knows I want to. But only if you stop with the cheesy lines.”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “They seem to be working. Made you laugh, didn’t I?”


	5. Dec. 24-26, Christmas: Montréal/Madison/Providence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Eric celebrate Christmas, separately and together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? Jack is a generous guy, Eric is lovely, Coach has feelings, Alicia really likes presents.

Jack wedged the last of his gifts for his parents behind the tree and then sat back on his heels to look at the effect.

His first thought was that there way too many presents for having only three people in the house.

His second thought was that at least a quarter of the gifts were for Eric. 

His third thought was, how was he supposed to get those all home?

Oh, well. He couldn’t really complain that his parents liked his boyfriend too much, could he? Besides, he could insist that his parents ship anything that didn’t fit in his suitcase. That way, they wouldn’t upstage him when he and Eric exchanged gifts on Boxing Day.

“I know it makes me sound like a child, but I think my favorite part of Christmas is looking at all the presents piled up under the tree,” his mother said from behind him.

Jack turned to see her looking at the tree with a mug of something, tea probably, a book under her arm.

“That’s why we always wrap so many things for Christmas,” she said. “So I apologize in advance for when you open the socks. At least you’re not getting toilet paper this year.”

“Toilet paper?” Jack said.

His mother indicated a large package with his dad’s name on it.

“Twenty rolls,” she said.

“Toilet paper.”

“He’ll think it’s funny,” Alicia said. “It will remind him of the year you were two and we bought you your very own box of Kleenex and you opened it and sat there and pulled out all the tissues one by one. And when we’re through laughing, I’ll put the toilet paper away in the cupboard and we won’t have to buy more for months.”

Jack could see the humor in that, and, more importantly, knew his dad would too.

“It’s partly, ‘What do you get for the man who had everything?’” Alicia said. “I do buy him clothes, sometimes even at holidays, but that’s more just to make him look presentable. He has everything he needs. So I try to get him one or two serious gifts, things I see that remind me of him, or things I think he’ll enjoy, and then I wrap up things we would need anyway for fun. It’s not like he needs another pen, and he doesn’t wear jewelry.”

“How do you find gifts year after year?” Jack asked.

“It’s not as hard as you might think,” she said. “Your dad’s a busy guy, he has hobbies and interests. Actually, this year I asked Eric for help.”

“Eric?” 

“Since your dad started baking more, I asked Eric what would be good,” she said. “That one’s a KitchenAid stand mixer, which Eric was horrified to see we didn’t have when he was here at Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, Eric has one of those,” Jack said. “I think he bought it with his graduation money. High school graduation.”

“In his little apartment?”

“It might have moved into my kitchen,” Jack said. “Months ago.”

“See, I knew your relationship was serious.”

“It was maybe a couple of months after I gave him the key?” Jack said. “When we had our West Coast road trip. He said it was a pain going back and forth when he wanted to use the mixer, and there was plenty of room in my cabinets, so if I minded he was happy to take it back, but he really found it convenient to have it there.”

“I was thinking I’d ask you if you had any plans to ask Eric to move in,” his mother said. “But if his mixer is in your kitchen, well, I think maybe he has.”

Jack felt himself blush.

“He just really appreciates a bigger kitchen than what he has,” he said.

“And I’m sure he likes the view, too,” she said.

“Well, you can see the river from my apartment, and I have more windows,” Jack said.

“That’s not what I meant.”

_“Maman!_ Please,” Jack said. “I do want to ask him if we can … rearrange … a bit. I don’t think he wants to give up his apartment, because he likes to have his own space sometimes, but maybe he could move more of his clothes and things over, and stay in our apartment. His unit could be like our study or something. Like a guest suite. I don’t know.”

“How do you think he’ll react?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. Sometimes I think he wants to move in, but he’ll never bring it up because he still hesitates to ask to sleep over, even though I’ve told him over and over that he’s always welcome, whether I’m home or not,” Jack said. “But if he doesn’t want to, I don’t want to put any pressure on him.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” his mother said. “Just trust him to tell you what he wants, or what he doesn’t want.”

****************************

Eric sipped his coffee and ate his traditional Christmas breakfast of his mother’s cinnamon bread, contemplating the Christmas tree. With Christmas falling on a Sunday, he had flown down yesterday, after finishing his shift, but he was taking Dec. 26 and 27 off as well.

The bakery was closed on Dec. 26 -- Eric had convinced Matthew that would make more sense than closing Christmas Eve, when people would want to pick up orders for Christmas -- and Dex had volunteered to take charge the next day.

Then he had made the executive decision to close at 2 p.m. on Christmas Eve, leaving Dex and Nurse to finish up after he left at noon. That allowed him to make sure all the holiday orders were done, and most of them picked up, before leaving for the airport, and it got him to Madison in time for the Christmas Eve service.

But he hadn’t been home to help his mother decorate the tree for the first time this year. Last year, she waited until two days before Christmas, but this year he came too late.

It looked like she put all the ornaments on -- the elegant ones that his parents had bought for themselves or received as gifts, the jokey ones that they had exchanged over the years, the ones he had made in Sunday school and in kindergarten. It must have taken her hours to do it by herself, he thought, and he wouldn’t have blamed her if she left some of the ornaments off, maybe tried to make it look like some of the trees they saw on Pinterest. 

His eyes picked out six different ice skate ornaments -- mostly figure skates but some hockey skates too -- and a dozen or more pies, tarts and rolling pins. 

“Big job, decorating that tree,” his father said from his seat in the recliner. “Took your mother and I the best part of last Saturday.”

“You helped?” Eric supposed he should have kept the surprise out of his voice.

“It seemed like it would be a good idea,” Coach said. “If I wanted dinner that night.”

Eric nodded. Of course his father hadn’t joined in to stop his mother from being lonely or sad that Eric wasn’t there.

“Don’t think I did as good of a job as you. She kept moving ornaments after I put them on.”

Eric looked at Coach and looked at the tree again. Really, it looked like all the ornaments had been thrown at it with no rhyme or reason.

“She always did that to me too,” Eric said.

“You have a tree up in Providence?”

“Not in my apartment,” Eric said. “A little one in Jack’s apartment. One of those fake ones that come with lights already on.”

“You have ornaments?” Coach said. “‘Cause you could probably take some of these.”

“Just because you don’t want to get stuck taking them down --” Eric started. Then he thought better of it. “Maybe a couple. There’s nothing really personal on our tree, because Jack always goes to his parents in Montreal and I’m always here for Christmas. Jack said he got the tree because he said it felt weird to not have any decorations, but I get my fill of decorating at the bakery.”

And Eric realized a moment after he spoke that he had called it “our tree” and not “Jack’s tree.” It didn’t seem Coach had noticed.

Eric put his feet on the floor and got ready to stand up and go help his mother get dinner going. If nothing else, he could start the dough for the rolls and see what she had planned for dessert. Family would be there a few hours.

“Wait, Junior,” Coach said. “Before you go, you know that you’re always welcome here. Jack, too, if you both want to come for Christmas.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Eric said. “He’s always spent the Christmas break with his parents, though.”

“It’s also OK if you want to go with him, or if you and he decide to have Christmas in Providence,” Coach said. “Your mother and I will survive. Although she probably wouldn’t turn down an invitation to join you.”

“I’ve never been anywhere else for Christmas.” Of course, his father knew that.

“But you will be, eventually, and that’s OK,” Coach said. “Things change. Kids grow up, get their own lives, their own families. Parents get older, maybe get to enjoy being guests sometimes.”

He paused.

“Anyway, I wanted you to know that you should do what’s right for you, not worry about us,” Coach said. “Your mother will understand. You should know we couldn’t be more proud of you, and she’s really looking forward to seeing your bakery next month.”

“What about you?” Eric asked. “Me too,” Coach said. “But I also can’t wait for the hockey game. I’ve never been to an NHL game.”

Eric smiled. The gift he and Jack had put together for his parents -- Falconers hats and T-shirts, and tickets for a game over the MLK holiday -- had been a hit. His father wanted to pay Jack back for the airfare, also included, but Eric had a feeling Jack would prevail after Eric suggested Coach Google Jack’s salary.

“Fine,” his father had said, “But I’m taking the two of you out to dinner while I’m there.”

It was strange, letting Jack pay for so much, but Eric had come to the conclusion that sometimes it was best to let Jack do what he wanted. Plus, Jack had agreed that the gift to Eric’s parents would also serve as his gift to Eric. There was no point to refusing and having everyone unhappy when everyone could be happy, he thought.

***********************

Jack put his sunglasses on and tugged his Habs cap down on his forehead as soon as he exited the plane, and found the nearest arrivals board to see which gate Eric’s flight would arrive at.

On time. Eric should be on the ground in 20 minutes.

Jack mentally thanked the travel gods that he had pre-cleared U.S. customs and immigration at Trudeau so he could remain inside the security perimeter and meet Eric at his gate. And that it worked out for them to fly into Logan within a half-hour of each other. If nothing else, Eric knew where he had parked when he drove Jack’s car to the airport on Saturday.

He took a seat in the area by Eric’s gate and pulled his phone out. Sure enough, there was a text from Eric as soon as the plane was at the gate.

_On the ground. See you soon!_

Jack waited as people trickled out of the jetway, probably the ones in business class first, but it was impossible to tell.

Finally, he saw Eric, not by himself, but with a young woman, carrying a baby seat and pushing a stroller. The girl was carrying a fussing infant and looked exhausted, even though it was only 11:30 a.m.

As soon as they got out of the jetway, Eric stepped to the side.

“That just snaps on top,” the woman was saying. 

Eric figured it out and attached the baby seat to the stroller, giving it a tug to make sure it was secure..

“There you go,” Eric said. “Come on, sweetheart.”

And Eric actually took the baby. Damn, Eric looked natural with a baby in his arms. Probably all those little cousins. 

He set it (her? him?) in the seat and pulled the straps over the baby’s shoulders while the baby’s mother (she had to be the baby’s mother, right?) set down the bag she had strapped to her back and rolled her shoulders.

“Thank you so much, Eric,” she said. “She’s gotten so heavy.”

“Please, it was no trouble at all,” Eric said. “Do you have those gingerbread cookies I gave you?”

“Of course you travel with cookies,” Jack said, approaching them.

“You know it,” Eric said, giving Jack a brief hug. “How was your flight?”

“Fine,” Jack said. “But I’m ready to get home.”

He turned to the young woman and said, “Hi, I’m Jack.”

“Sarah,” she said. “Can I just say how lucky you are? Eric is a treasure. I was so nervous to fly on my own with Izzy, and then she started crying when we took off, and I was afraid I’d have an angry seat-mate on my hands. Instead, he did his best to entertain her. He’s going to make a great daddy one day.”

Jack looked to Eric, whose eyebrows had risen. So Eric probably hadn’t said anything about Jack being his boyfriend, or about wanting kids. Did Eric want kids? They hadn’t really talked about it. On the boyfriend front … Were they that obvious? Well, yes, probably. And this was the advantage of having been outed, right?

So Jack put his arm around Eric’s shoulders and pulled him in so he could kiss Eric’s cheek. He said, “I know. He’s great.”

Now Eric was pink -- a good look on him, Jack thought, but then most looks were good on Eric -- and he was saying, “I was just glad I could help with the peanut. You have someone meeting you?”

“Yes,” Sarah said. “My husband should be here. We just went home for Christmas because he had to work, and my parents really wanted to see her. But I’ll text you. We should really get that coffee.”

Jack let her walk away before pulling Eric into a longer hug.

“There you go, winning hearts right and left.”

“Hush, you,” Eric said. “She just needed a friendly face on that plane.”

“Well, you’ve certainly won my heart.”

****************************

Eric still felt nervous driving Jack’s car, even more with Jack in it.

Which was strange, because Jack’s small SUV -- OK, small compared to ones with names that evoked whole fleets of ships; who names a car “the Armada”? -- was not a challenge to maneuver compared to the oversized pickup trucks Eric had learned on, and it drove like a dream. A dream with heated seats, no less.

After the second or third time Eric had demurred at the idea of using Jack’s car while he was away -- “What if I get pulled over? What if there’s an accident?” -- Jack had added Eric as a regular driver to his car insurance policy. 

“Now no one can question if you have permission to use the car,” Jack said. “And if there is an accident, they can’t deny coverage. So please, take the car. Especially if you’re going somewhere at night, or by yourself.”

Once they had retrieved Jack’s suitcase from the carousel, Jack had said to Eric “Lead the way.”

When they arrived at the car, Jack threw his bags in the back and himself into the passenger seat.

“I’m so glad we don’t have a game tomorrow,” he said. “I want to spend the day with you.”

So Eric climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car, wondering how this became his life.

Once they arrived at their building, Eric headed to his apartment to drop off his overnight bag and pick up Jack’s gifts.

He really hoped Jack would like them. He’d spent more than he should -- he had swallowed his pride and asked his parents for money for Christmas, and asked if he could have it two weeks early -- but he wanted to get something Jack wouldn’t think of getting for himself, something he would enjoy.

So he gathered the box and the padded envelope and headed back to Jack’s apartment.

Jack was heating two servings of Eric’s lasagna in the oven and cutting vegetables for a salad when Eric came in and looked at the tree. There were packages all around it -- at least half a dozen, from almost square to very long and thin.

“Are those all for me?” Eric asked. “It’s too much. You said the tickets for my parents were my gift.”

“One of your gifts,” Jack said. “And these are all kind of part of one gift.”

“That’s good, I guess, because I only got you one thing,” Eric said. “Well, two, really, but only one real gift.”

“I should warn you: there’s also an envelope of printed out pictures of gifts from my parents,” Jack said. “It’s all stuff they ordered for you. They had the pictures all wrapped up in boxes and they made me open them. If you want, you can go through those while we eat.”

“They shouldn’t have,” Eric said. “I mean, my parents only sent you a card.”

“It’s fine, Eric.” Jack said. “My parents are like that. They practically adopted Kent.”

Eric’s head snapped up.

“Kent? As in, your ex, Kent Parson?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jack said. “But it’s been so long I don’t really think of him like that. Now he’s a friend, I guess, someone who’s known me forever. But when we were kids, he was around a lot, even before we … we were friends and teammates first, and the physical part got added to that. And he was kind of lost, and they took him under their wing. They’re still close to him. But in the beginning, they were always buying him stuff. To the point I got a little jealous.”

“I’m sorry,” Eric said. “Does it bother you now?”

“Not at all,” Jack said. “And it really shouldn’t have bothered me then. I just wasn’t in a good frame of mind to see things accurately. Anyway, trust me, they like to give gifts, especially my mother, and they’re thrilled to have someone new to buy gifts for.”

“OK,” Eric said.

“And a lot of it isn’t expensive stuff,” Jack said. “You seem to be in family territory already, getting things that you’d probably have to buy anyway. I can tell you she didn’t buy you toilet paper -- my dad got 20 rolls.”

“Well, now I have to look,” Eric said, sitting at the table with his plate. 

There were two sweaters -- one a dark red, almost a Samwell-red, and one a deep blue -- a cookbook of Quebecois specialties, a mortar and pestle and several jars of whole spices, and four rolls of baking parchment. 

“There is one actual present from them in my suitcase,” Jack said. “I’ll get it.”

“I’ll bring the tea over to the tree,” Eric said.

Jack brought a soft package to Eric, who unwrapped it to find a replica of Bob’s Habs jersey.

Eric put it on immediately and took a selfie, posting it with the caption, _Who’s my favorite Zimmermann?_

Jack tried to pretend he was pouting, but Eric wasn’t fooled. He just kissed Jack’s lower lip and said, “You know it’s you.”

Jack pulled him closer and kissed him again, longer and deeper, just to make sure, and when Eric pulled back, he was pink. “I think I like jealous Jack. Or at least pretending-to-be-jealous Jack.”

“Here, open this one next,” Jack said. He handed Eric a square box, almost the same size as the box Eric had for him.

Inside was a new hockey helmet, in Falconers’ blue.

“I didn’t have them put a visor on, in case you wanted to use your facemask,” Jack said. “But last time we played, I noticed that your helmet was out of date.”

“Thanks, Jack. I guess I never thought about replacing it because I wasn’t on a team anymore.”

The rest of the boxes turned out to include a full set of pads and gloves and a new stick, with the last box holding two pictures similar to those his mother had sent.

Jack shrugged. “I learned from the best.”

The pictures showed two pairs of skates, one for hockey and one for figure skates.

“I didn’t want to choose the model and wrap them because different brands fit differently, and you need to get what;s good for you. But Dominic at the skate shop knows that I’m buying them for you, so you can go pick them out whenever you want.”

“But Jack, it’s too much. I know you know how much good skates cost,” Eric said.

“So I’ll know if you don’t get good ones,” Jack said. “I’ve seen your skates. They’re good, but they’re what, three or four years old? For as much as you skate, they should have been replaced at least a year ago, maybe longer.”

“It’s still too much,” Eric said. “With all the other stuff too?”

“But I like to play with you,” Jack said. “When it’s just us, or when we get the other guys to come too. It’s important that you have good equipment.”

“And the figure skates?”

“I wanted you to know that I value that too,” Jack said. “Otherwise it would feel like I was trying to make you prioritize hockey. And I know you love it.”

Eric couldn’t help his smile. It was too much -- far too much, and made the gift Eric scrimped to buy for Jack pale in comparison -- but it also reflected so much of what Eric loved about Jack: his enthusiasm, the way he paid attention to what Eric loved, just that he wanted to spend time with him.

“OK, mine’s nowhere near as big,” Eric said. “But I thought you’d like it.”

Jack opened the gift, a Nikon D5500, which the clerk at the camera store assured him was an excellent choice for a beginner. 

Jack not only unwrapped it, he opened the box and pulled the camera body out, cradling it in his large hands while he looked at it from every angle.

“The lady at the store said it would be good for someone to learn on, because you can make it automatic but you can also play with the settings,” Eric said. “There’s a lens in there, but you can get others. If you want advice, I tucked in the lady’s card. She said she’d be happy to help.”

The words tumbled out of Eric, who was desperate to fill the silence.

“Eric, I love it,” Jack said. “When I was in high school, I wanted to take a photography class, but it didn’t fit with my schedule, what with hockey and all. But I’ve always liked it.”

“I got the idea with how much care you take with pictures for Instagram,” Eric said. “Even if they’re just phone pictures, you make things look amazing.”

“Thanks, Eric,” Jack said. “It’s great.”

“There’s one more thing,” Eric said, handing Jack the padded envelope. He opened it to find a key, one he recognized.

“Is this the key to your apartment?” Jack asked.

“Um, yeah,” Eric said. “I don’t really expect you to spend any time there, because everything you need is here. But it felt wrong that I’ve had your key so long, and you didn’t have mine. So if you ever want to stop over, whether I’m there or not, feel free. If you need to find an obscure recipe from an old cookbook, or borrow a springform pan or --”

“Wrap myself in your blankets and hug Senor Bun if I need to feel close to you but you aren’t here?” Jack said.

“Well, sure. Or that.” 

****************************

After lunch and their gifts were cleaned up, Eric suggested going for a run, since Lardo wasn’t around and Meehan would be closed.

“We can go to the practice facility if you want,” Jack said. “You’ll have to wear your old skates, but you can break in the new pads. See if I got everything the right size.”

“Will there be anyone there today?” Eric asked. “I wouldn’t want to put anyone out by making them come in on their day off.”

“I don’t know if Rick’s there, but we’re not on the ice until 10 tomorrow,” Jack said. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll find out if he was planning to be in earlier than that so he can cut the ice. And don’t worry -- security will be there. I won’t be able to ravish you on the ice or anything.”

Eric arched an eyebrow at him.

“Ravish me?” he asked. “What have you been reading?”

He sounded amused, so Jack counted it as a win.

“Did you want to figure skate first, like you usually do?” Jack said.

“I don’t know,” Eric said. “If I’m going to get all geared up, maybe just play around with a puck? I can use my old stick -- I haven’t got any tape for this one.”

Jack blinked.

“We’re going to an NHL practice facility,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I can find tape. I’ll even tape your stick for you if you want. But I was hoping you’d figure skate for at least a little while so I can try out the camera.”

“Lord,” Eric said. “I didn’t get that for you so you could take pictures of me. Don’t you want to try it out by taking pictures of the Christmas tree, or an artfully posed hockey stick, or the geese on the river or something?”

“I took pictures of the Christmas tree already, as soon as the battery was charged,” Jack said. “Please? I want to see how I do with action shots.”

“Fine,” Eric said. “But just for you, not for Insta.”

Eric dressed in his usual (snug, body-hugging, thank-God-for-Lycra) black workout clothes to skate. He started with his usual routine: step sequences, spins and a few jumps, then skated over to where Jack was standing at the boards, frowning down at the little monitor on the back of the camera. The camera was great -- every shot was in focus -- but Jack found that it was harder than he thought to keep a moving target where he wanted in the frame. The best ones were of Eric spinning, if only because he wasn’t moving across the ice. This was going to take some practice.

“Want me to do an actual program?” he asked. “Something that has some flow to it?”

“Sure,” Jack said. “I’m not sure how well you’ll like these pictures. I’m going to have to work at this.”

“First, I don’t ever need to see the pictures, unless you want to show me, so don’t worry about that,” Eric said. “Second, can I just say how much I love that you sound excited about having to spend time learning something?”

Eric leaned across the boards to kiss him.

“Um, could you skate to ‘Halo,’ the way you did the first time we came here together?” Jack asked. “I really liked that routine.”

He liked it so much he had thought about for weeks afterwards, wondering what it would be like if Eric actually meant all the sentiments in the song for him. Now he could watch it and know Eric loved him. 

“Sure thing, sweet pea,” Eric said. “My phone and a speaker are in my bag right there. Get them out and I’ll set it up.”

That evening, after cleaning up and going for a walk along the river, stopping for take-out on the way home, Jack flicked through the pictures he had taken. Eric had skated to “Halo” twice, and by the second time, Jack was better at leading him with the camera, so he was skating into the frame instead of out of it. Jack had even managed a few close-ups, of Eric’s radiant smile when he finished, of his skate-blades flashing as he completed an intricate series of steps.

Jack’s favorite was a shot he got of Eric spinning in the air like a top, arms wrapped close around him, legs crossed at the ankle, the light glinting off his hair. It was amazing. 

Later, there were pictures of Eric dressed for hockey, with his new blue helmet -- Eric had let Jack send that one to his parents -- and, yes, the geese on the river. But Jack kept coming back to the picture of Eric caught in mid-air, like his feet never needed to touch the ground.

“Eric,” Jack said. “Look at this one.”

Eric came out of the bathroom where he was getting ready for bed, and looked over Jack’s shoulder.

“That is a good shot,” he said. “Although Katya would probably crucify me for my form.”

“Can I post this one?’ Jack asked. “I won’t tag you if you don’t want. But I want everyone to see how amazing you are.”

“I think people who follow you know who I am anyway,” Eric said. “Go ahead, if you want. I just hope Katya has no idea who you are.”

Jack used the wifi feature on the camera to send the image to his phone, then posted it with the caption # _myboyfriendisbrilliant_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> \--Does Coach Bittle hide his emotions behind his wife? Yes, yes he does.  
> \--The outline note for last section literally just said, “Jack adores Eric”  
> \-- And Katya totally follows Jack


	6. Dec. 31 and Jan 1: New Year’s Eve and Day, New York and Providence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Eric spend New Year's Eve in New York. Guest appearances by Ransom and Holster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff. All the fluff.

Eric settled into his seat at Madison Square Garden and took a good look around.

He was already tired from spending the day wandering Manhattan with Ransom and Holster, including a stop to skate at Rockefeller Center. Holster had urged him into a few spins and simple jumps in his new figure skates, and Eric had blushed at the admiration of his fellow skaters.

Now his former captains were joining him for the 6 p.m. game, which should end in plenty of time for the crowd to get out and join the masses waiting for the ball to drop. Or celebrate the New Year however.

Eric wouldn't be caught dead in Times Square, even though that's where Ransom and Holster were heading after the game. He was going to meet Jack at his hotel, order room service, and celebrate by watching the revelry in the streets below. In all honesty, he couldn't think of a better plan.

Holster plopped into the seat next to him with a beer and a frankly alarming pastrami sandwich. Ransom had a steak sandwich on garlic bread and his own beer. He passed Eric a pretzel and bottle of water.

“Bro, you sure you don't want more to eat?” Holster said. “Growing boy like you has got to keep his strength up.”

“Haha,” Eric said. “I'm 23. And a half.”

Oops. That sounded less petulant in his head. “Anyway, I'm going to eat later with Jack. Food that doesn't come from an arena.”

“You sure man?” Ransom said. “They have some tasty offerings. Not just hot dogs and pizza.”

“Really, I'm fine,” Eric said. “Thanks for coming to hang with me today.”

“Bits. You got us primo seats to watch the Rangers at the Garden on New Year’s Eve. We are going to experience the ball drop in Times Square,” Ransom said, somehow making it sound dirty. “Believe me, we should be thanking you.”

Eric narrowed his eyes. 

“Watch the _Rangers_?” he said.

“Only in that they'll be playing the Falconers,” Ransom said, gesturing to his Mashkov jersey.

“All right then,” Eric said, with fake huff and a smile to show he was kidding.

The smile brightened by an order of magnitude when the Falconers took the ice for warmups, and on one of his laps, Jack stopped and tapped the glass in front of them.

“There’s your boy,” Holster said. “That is one fine hockey ass.”

“I know,” Eric said.

The three of them were a knot of Falconers’ blue and yellow in a sea of the Rangers’ darker blue, and they drew more attention by cheering when Poots slipped a puck past Lundqvist to open the scoring. Eric caught a some eyes lingering as they settled back down, but no one said anything directly to him. Well, besides the fans booing and yelling at them to sit down, but that was to be expected when you were rooting for the visiting team. Especially in New York.

The ones looking at him might know who he was, as in, he was Jack Zimmermann’s boyfriend, not that he was Eric Bittle, baker from Providence. Last spring, that would have bothered, even frightened, him. Now, as long as no one was rude, well, it was fine.

That might have something to do with his seat between two very large men wearing Falconers’ gear. 

Still, when he caught the eye of a young man a few rows away, who looked at him and offered a smile, Eric nodded back.

The game went to the first intermission with the Falconers’ still up 1-0.

In the second period, the Rangers tied it on a Mats Zuccarello goal.

“Shit, Bitty, he’s like your size,” Holster said. “Maybe you should have tried for the NHL.”

Eric laughed and said, “He’s about my height, but I’m pretty sure he’s got like 30 pounds on me. And it wasn’t like there were any teams scouting me. It was you they were coming to see, but you didn’t end up signing anywhere either.”

Holster shrugged.

“If I tried to play, I know I would have been down in the minors for a while,” Holster said. “It’s not much money, and I could get hurt, and I wouldn’t really have any control. I could be traded and end up anywhere. I’d rather make decent coin helping companies figure their shit out, and be able to share a lovely apartment with Ransom here. And be pretty sure both my knees will work when I get home. … I loved playing at Samwell, but to go pro? You have to really want it, and when I thought about it, I decided I didn’t want it enough.”. 

Eric nodded. Hockey was never going to be it for him either, no matter how encouraging Jack and the other Falconers were about his skill. But he’d been willing to take a part-time job in a bakery to find a way to use his interest in pastry and the social media expertise he’d developed. It probably wasn’t what his parents envisioned when they sent him up north for college, but it had worked out well so far.

***************************

Jack found Eric sitting between Adam and Justin on a sofa in the hotel lobby, all three still wearing Falconers’ jerseys. 

Justin was talking about his decision to apply to medical school after two years out of college.

“I think I want to practice medicine, but even if I don’t, the degree will help with the work I’m doing now,” he said. “It will actually open up more avenues for me, and they could be really lucrative.”

“Is that why you’re doing it?” Eric asked. 

Justin stared at him for a long moment, but Eric just looked back steadily, until Justin shrugged.

“It would be way cool to help a kid get better from being really sick,” he said. “Or to save someone’s life … I could do that, I think. But maybe I’m better doing research. I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to have it all figured out, bro,” Adam said. “One step at a time.”

“That’s right, Rans,” Eric said. “I think you’ll be a great doctor, whatever you do with it.”

“I have to get in first,” Ransom said.

“You will,” Eric said.

Jack chose that moment to approach, saying, “You guys have some courage, wearing those out here.”

The game had ended in a 3-2 win for the Falconers, with Jack’s goal with five minutes left making the difference. Blocking a shot at the other end -- with his face -- had also contributed, and won him far more chirps in the dressing room.

“Oh, honey,” Eric said, leaping up. “Look at that. It must hurt.”

Eric stood in front of him, hand hovering near Jack’s cheekbone, now sporting three neat sutures and starting to purple.

“It’s alright,” Jack said. “I would have come back to play if there was time.”

Adam and Justin stood behind Eric.

“Jack, nice game,” Adam said.

“Sweet goal, man,” Justin added. “Wicked block, too.”

“Thanks, guys,” Jack said.

“We’re going to head out,” Adam said. “Bits, don’t be a stranger. Jack, good to see you again.”

“And don’t do anything we wouldn’t do, boys,” Justin chimed in.

Eric blushed, reached up to hug both of them and said, “Happy New Year, guys. Thanks for coming today.”

“We wouldn’t have missed it, Bits,” Holster said.

Jack gave a nod and a half-wave. “Happy New Year,” he said. “And really, thanks.”

Once Eric’s friends pushed through the revolving door and into the throngs of revelers, Jack laced his fingers through Eric’s and tugged him towards the elevator.

“Come on, bud,” he said. “I can’t wait to get out of this suit and have some dinner.”

“Mmm,” Eric said. “You out of that suit sounds good to me. Seriously, though, how bad does your face hurt?”

“Not too bad yet,” Jack said. “They gave me lidocaine before they stitched it up. I still should ice it to keep the swelling down, though.”

“Did they give you anything else?” Eric asked.

“Ibuprofen,” Jack said.

“When are you due for more?” 

“Any time it hurts enough that I want it after, what, about 1?”

“OK,” Eric said. “I’ll get some ice when we get upstairs while you get comfortable.”

“I can get the ice,” Jack said. “You order dinner. Get what you want. Get dessert if you want it.”

Jack opened the door and ushered Eric in. He watched as Eric took in the champagne already chilling and the vase of roses.

“Oh. my Lord, Jack, what did you do?” Eric said. 

“I wanted tonight to be special for you,” Jack said. “Romantic. Sorry about …” he gestured to his face.

“It’s still romantic,” Eric said. “It’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me. Now you get that jacket off. Sit there while I get the ice. Then I’ll call for dinner.”

Within minutes, Jack was reclined on the bed in sweatpants and a soft T-shirt, a bag of ice wrapped in a hand-towel against his face. Eric had changed to sweats and T-shirt as well, but he put Jack’s jersey back on.

“I just like to see you in it,” Jack had said, almost shyly.

“Whatever you want,” Eric had said. 

Dinner was on its way, and Eric had poured each of them a glass of champagne and sat next to Jack on the bed. Jack picked up the remote to click off the hockey highlights he was watching.

“You don’t have to,” Eric said. “I know they’re important to you.”

Jack turned the TV off.

“I can watch them later.”

“I just wanted to say this year turned out so different -- so much better -- than anything I ever expected,” Eric said. “And it’s all because of you.”

“No,” Jack said. “I mean yes, this year was so wonderful, but I don’t deserve all the credit. It’s all you. You make me better. You make me want to be better. And for the first time in a few years at least, I can’t wait to see what next year brings.”

****************************

Eric answered the door when the waiter arrived with their dinner: a filet mignon for him, a New York strip steak for Jack. 

He’d only half-jokingly asked if Jack wanted the chicken tenders from the children’s menu. Jack seemed to consider it for a moment, then said, “No. It’s a special occasion, and as much as I like them, chicken tenders aren’t special-occasion food. I can have red meat every so often.”

Eric had nearly choked when he saw the menu prices, but Jack had reassured him that it was fine.

If anything, Jack seemed surprised that Eric chose the smaller cut of meat, and strawberries and cream for dessert, along with a side of grilled vegetables.

Eric shrugged.

“It’s an eight-ounce filet, Jack,” he said. “A half-pound of beef is plenty for anyone who doesn’t routinely use up 10,000 calories in a day.”

“But no decadent cake? Where’s the Eric I know and love?” Jack asked.

“Please. Anything we order in a hotel now will have been baked this morning at the latest,” Eric said. “I’d like to think I’ve got you spoiled enough to appreciate fresh baked goods. Besides, I want to see whether $16 can actually get you tasty strawberries in December.”

The waiter had pushed the cart in, and Eric took the check in its folder to the bed for Jack to sign it. He raised his eyebrows at the size of the tip Jack added.

“Clearly, I’m in the wrong line of work,” Eric said, after the waiter set their plates on the table and withdrew with the cart.

Jack shrugged.

“He’s lucky if he’s even getting minimum wage in a job that gets tips,” Jack said. “And in a place like this, lots of foreign travelers with different tipping customs, probably not everybody tips at all.”

“But there was a tip included!”

Jack shrugged. “It never hurts to be generous,” he said. “That’s what my parents always taught me. And, well, it’s self-serving, but people know my name, and the last thing anyone wants is a reputation for being cheap.”

“So wait, you think Enrique is going to go back downstairs and tell everyone that he just brought dinner to Jack Zimmermann and his boyfriend, and got a $50 tip?” Eric said. 

“Maybe,” Jack said. “Maybe not. But I sure don’t want him to go downstairs and say Jack Zimmermann was there with his boyfriend, couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed, and gave him a lousy $5.”

He paused.

“Enrique?”

“He was wearing a nametag,” Eric said.

“Should I be jealous?” Jack said. “I suppose he was kind of cute …”

“Oh, hush,” Eric said. “It’s just good manners to call people by their names, especially people in hospitality who wear their names on them, for Pete’s sake. You get tired of people not even noticing you’re actually human, you know? For what it’s worth, I’m glad you were generous. He’s working New Year’s Eve, when he’d probably rather be with his own family or girlfriend or boyfriend. Now eat. You need the food to recover after a game like that.”

Jack got up and sat at the table with Eric, and Eric watched him eat.

The injury to his face was high enough that chewing didn’t seem to bother him, and it did nothing to ruin his looks. Really, Eric sometimes thought, it wasn’t fair for one person to be so good-looking, with his glossy dark hair, clear blue eyes that always drooped just a bit, bone structure that models would kill for -- and that was just his face.

From the neck down, he might have been carved from marble, he was so perfect. And somehow, he thought Eric was attractive.

Jack was quiet while he ate, which wasn’t unusual. Still, if Jack was ever going to be chatty, it would be after a game, especially if he had a drink or two. The combination of the adrenaline wearing off and the alcohol usually loosened his mouth, showing Eric a flirty, sometimes goofy side that Eric had come to cherish.

Now, on his second glass of champagne, Jack worked his way through his steak and just looked at Eric.

“You OK, honey?” Eric asked. “If your face is bothering you, or you’re too tired, we could go to sleep as soon as you’re done eating. We don’t have to stay up.”

“What? No,” Jack said. “It’s our first New Year’s together. Aren’t we supposed to kiss at midnight? Isn’t that what people do?”

“Sure, sugar, but not if you’re in pain,” Eric said. “We can kiss anytime. As much as you want.”

“Kiss me now?” Jack asked, smirking.

So Eric leaned across the table and gave him a small peck.

“I want to kiss you at midnight,” Jack said. “And for as long as possible afterwards. Really, my face will be OK. It’s not as bad the one I had that first time I saw you.”

“No?” Eric said. “Same number of stitches.”

“But the rest isn’t as bad,” Jack said. “This one didn’t nearly break my jaw, or loosen any teeth.”

Eric shook his head.

“And you went out running that afternoon.”

“It makes me feel better,” Jack said.

“Fine,” Eric said. “No running tonight.”

“I think I can come up with better things to do,” Jack said. “Like kissing you.”

****************************

Jack licked the cream off a strawberry before popping it in his mouth, and smirked at the blush that rose on Eric’s face.

He hadn’t done it on purpose -- well, not entirely. And if he could distract Eric from his injury, so much the better. He had plans for the holiday, and they didn’t include Eric tucking him in with an ice pack. He could live with the pain.

He dipped another strawberry in the cream and held it out for Eric. 

“Open your mouth,” he said.

Eric did, and managed to wrap his lips around Jack’s fingers as well as the berry. Then, once he swallowed it, his tongue darted out to lick a drop of cream from the corner of his mouth.

“Two can play at that game, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack knew he was as red as Eric had been, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“That’s the best way,” he said.

Eric then scooped up a berry and fed it to Jack, before popping another one in his mouth.

“Mmmmm. Not bad, especially for December, but nowhere near as good as a ripe strawberry in June, fresh off the plant and all warm from the sun. Have you ever gone strawberry-picking, Jack?”

“Can’t say I have,” Jack said. “In good years, June’s kind of busy.”

“Strawberry season’s a little later in New England,” Eric said. “And playoffs end before the end of June, right?” 

“Usually somewhere around the 20th,” Jack said. 

“Then it’s a date,” Eric said. “We’ll go as soon as you’re available.”

Jack felt warmth radiating from his stomach as though he was eating those sun-warmed berries now. Eric was talking about a date nearly six months in the future. He didn’t care if it was strawberry-picking or going to a black-tie gala. Eric was counting on them being together. That made his plan that much easier to follow through on.

But not yet. It was 11:50, and in 10 minutes it would be midnight, and he was going to kiss Eric and wish him a happy New Year, and he was going to kiss Eric again, and take him to bed.

Eric was standing by the window, watching the crowds thronging in the streets below.

“Come over here,” Eric said.

Jack filled Eric’s champagne flute again; his own was still half-full. He carried both with him to the window, setting them on a side table, and wrapped his arms around Eric from behind. He rested the unhurt side of his face against Eric’s hair while he looked outside.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people,” Eric said. “This is so different from Madison, or even Samwell or Providence.”

“It is crowded,” Jack said. “Do you think you’d ever want to live in a city like New York?”

He was honestly curious. He could imagine how many baked goods Eric could sell here, or if he didn’t want the day-to-day job of running a bakery, he could do something with a cooking show. His vlog had added viewers by the thousands over the last several months, and if people came because they heard Eric was Jack’s boyfriend, they stayed because Eric was a warm, friendly presence who made baking (or sometimes cooking healthy food) seem easy and fun. Jack sometimes watched it when he was on the road, especially during the day when didn’t want to bother Eric at work. He’d never actually asked if it was all right, but he figured it was the first time he came home and made a recipe Eric had shared on the vlog while he was gone and Eric just smiled and told him he’d got it right.

“New York?” Eric asked. “I don’t think so. I like Providence for now. Although it was fun to wander around today. I think Holster posted some pictures of me skating. We kind of have the best of both worlds, don’t we? A smaller city to live in, but close to Boston and even close enough to visit here?”

“I like it too,” Jack said. “Look -- the countdown.”

Eric counted along.

“10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2 --”

“Eric, I love you so much,” Jack broke in. “Happy New Year.”

He pulled Eric in for a long kiss. When they broke apart, Eric said, “Happy New Year, Jack. For the record, I love you so much too.”

Jack handed Eric his glass, they toasted, sipped, and kissed again.

Tomorrow, they were going to sleep late, at least for them, and maybe go out for a run, and go out for breakfast, and then drive home together.

They could stop for fish tacos, and watch the Winter Classic and college football. It was going to be the best New Year’s ever.

*************************

Eric supposed he was lucky that Jack let them sleep until 8:30. Then it was out of bed, lacing up trainers and pulling on hats and jackets, and a quick run through the streets of Manhattan and the paths in Central Park. 

Back to the hotel, shower, check out, head out for breakfast and to pick up Jack’s car from the public garage where Eric had left it the day before.

Eric curled into the passenger seat and watched Jack drive. He was a restful driver to watch, handling the wheel with the same easy grace he did anything physical. Eric found a quiet, restful playlist to the match the mood and let himself zone out.

He’d left the bakery in Dex’s hands again yesterday, and everything seemed to go fine again. It was the second time in a week, but Eric consoled himself with the knowledge that last year, he’d taken nearly two weeks vacation at the holidays. Matthew had covered by moving someone down from the Boston bakery, which had a bigger staff.

This year, with Eric spreading his time off out by taking a day here and a day there, creating the daily menus to fit with Dex’s skills and making sure ingredients were on hand, he’d been able to manage with the staff he had.

Maybe in a few months, Dex would be able to cover for a whole week, and Eric could accept the Zimmermanns’ invitation to visit with Jack in the off-season.

He knew that technically, it wasn’t really his problem. Matthew had promised him two weeks of vacation a year, and how to cover for him should be Matthew’s problem. Realistically, the longer he was at the bakery, the more he put his own stamp on it and the less involvement Matthew had in the day-to-day operations. Now nearly everything the bakery served had been at least tweaked by Eric, and several of his creations were on the menu in the Boston bakeries too.

He thought about what Alicia had suggested at Thanksgiving -- that he buy the bakery and make it entirely his own. He really didn’t have any money, though. He’d graduated with his savings nearly cleaned out, and lived paycheck to paycheck at least until the last six months. Once he’d paid up on his security deposit and last month’s rent, he could put a couple of hundred away each month. Actually, he’d been able to save a little more; Jack insisted on paying for most of the groceries that ended up in his kitchen, and anything they did together when they went out, and it was hard to argue that they should go dutch more often.

But a one-paycheck cushion was not enough to look at buying a business. No bank would look at him, 23 years old with an American studies degree, for a loan. Maybe in a few years, he told himself again.

By the time he took notice of where they were, they were making their way through Connecticut, almost to New Haven. Jack hadn’t spoken at all, which was quiet even for him. He seemed to be wrapped in his own thoughts as well, and concern prickled at Eric. He knew Jack could spiral into anxiety when he was like this.

“Did I ever tell you about our game against Yale when I was a freshman?” Eric said. “That was when I scored my first goal in college. I couldn’t believe it.”

Jack roused himself from his reverie.

“Why not? You’re a sniper,” he said.

“I had my eyes closed, Jack,” Eric deadpanned. “It was a lucky shot.”

Jack grunted. “Maybe,” he said. “But you must have been in the right place at the right time, and you did take the shot. You know, my Uncle Wayne says you miss 100 percent of the shots you don’t take.”

“Did you -- Uncle Wayne?” Eric sputtered. “I know who said that, Jack. What am I going to do with you?”

“Take me home and have your way with me?” Jack teased.

“Hush, you.”

Eric’s gambit seemed to have worked, as Jack spoke more freely about his hockey “uncles” as they made their way home.

Jack stopped for fish tacos at the same place he had the first time they skated together before they reached the building, and opened doors and waited for Eric to enter and exit the elevator before him.

It felt like a date, Eric thought, like Jack was courting him. Didn’t he know that he already had Eric, hook, line and sinker?

After Eric stowed his bag in his apartment, he came back to Jack’s to eat and watch the Winter Classic. He was just getting up to put the plates in the kitchen at the first intermission when Jack said, “Eric, wait. There’s something I want to ask you.”

Eric stopped and felt the blood drain from his face. Was Jack going to propose? Please not yet, he thought. I need time to prepare for this.

But Jack wasn’t on one knee or anything. He was still seated on the couch, looking earnestly at Eric.

“I was thinking that it might be easier if you moved in here, like full-time,” Jack said. “You like to cook in the kitchen, and most of your equipment is here by now. There’s laundry in the unit, and there’s plenty of room, and I know you like the shower.”

“Jack, why do you sound like a real estate ad?” Eric said, laughing. “I think we know that your apartment is superior to mine in every possible way.”

“Not if you don’t live here,” Jack said.

“But honey, it’s good for us to have different places,” Eric said. “And our schedules are so different.”

“I know,” Jack said. “And you should keep your place. Just move more of your clothes here, and sleep here more often. You know you’re comfortable here, and I sleep better with you. But it’s your decision, of course.”

Eric smiled, then let out a sigh that was meant to sound put upon.

“Fine, Mr. Zimmermann, if it helps you sleep,” he said. “I’ll tell you a secret: I sleep better with you too. Then again, it might be the mattress.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed there is now a chapter count. Two more are coming: Martin Luther King Day (I know, it's only a US holiday without any particular traditions, but Coach and Suzanne are coming to Providence) and Valentine's Day.


	7. Jan. 13-15: MLK Day weekend, Providence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bittles come to visit for a weekend, see the bakery, go to a game, dispense parental wisdom, even help at a volunteer event ... and meet some surprise guests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that much of this chapter takes place in a domestic violence shelter, during a volunteer project while the residents are away. There is no description of abuse.  
> Still not beta'd, so please tell me if I need to fix something!

Jack was running late. He was supposed to be picking up Eric’s parents -- people who rarely traveled more than driving distance from their home -- and he was late.

He’d told Eric last night that it would be fine, that he’d already cleared it with Mats that he had to leave morning skate in time to go to Logan to pick up the Bittles, so Eric wouldn’t have to abandon Sugar ‘n’ Spice once again, especially on a Saturday, the day he made the menus for the next week, placed orders for ingredients and in general made sure that everything was set to reopen after two days.

Mats had been fine with it. Eric usually slotted himself into Jack’s life so seamlessly that Jack was far less likely to ask for time off than any of his teammates, even after they started dating. That was his responsibility as captain, to lead by example, but surely a half-hour at the end of morning skate wouldn’t be slacking off too much.

Eric had been reluctant to accept Jack’s offer, and his mother almost flat-out refused.

“You tell that boyfriend of yours that we can make our way to Providence on our own, Dicky,” Suzanne said, voice loud and clear from where Eric’s phone sat on the dining room table.

“Does she know she’s on speaker?” Jack mouthed at Eric.

Eric shrugged.

“Mother, you are on speaker. Jack can hear you as well as I can,” Eric said.

“Then he can hear that I won’t have him putting himself out for us,” Suzanne said.

“But Mother, you are guests here, and it’s only right that someone meet you at the airport,” Eric said. “You wouldn’t want it to get back to Jack’s mother that you had to cope with getting to the train station, or you had to rent a car, when he could have met you like a proper host, would you? She might think it would reflect badly on her.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want Alicia to think that,” Suzanne said. “All right.”

Jack cursed the airlines for not having any direct flights from Atlanta to Providence, and the traffic for holding him up, and himself for not leaving the ice as soon as Mats pointed out that he really should be going. Another five minutes, he thought, shouldn’t make a difference.

“Call Eric,” he said to the bluetooth receiver.

As soon as Eric picked up, Jack said, “I’m not going to make it. I’m still stuck on 95, and I’ve got like another 25 minutes I think. Can you call your parents and tell them to wait by baggage claim? I’m so sorry.”

“It’ll be fine, Jack,” Eric said. “Just let me check -- yeah, their plane’s running a little late, too. I’ll text Mama and let her know you’re on your way, and if she doesn’t see you at baggage claim to just sit tight, OK? I promise they won’t mind.”

Jack hated being late. It had been drummed into him by both his parents growing up that it was not only rude to waste other people’s time, it could make him come off as arrogant and conceited, like he thought he was more important than whoever was left waiting for him. He was already the awkward son (yes, he was well aware of that, thanks) of famous parents, and people were all too ready to see him as stuck-up instead of just disorganized or nervous or not good with directions or any of the other reasons he might be late.

And these were Eric’s parents, people he wanted to impress, people he wanted to like him. 

Eric said they did like him already, from when they met him last summer and the few times they’d communicated since then. 

“Jack, come on,” Eric said, trying to reassure him. “I’m the one telling them about you. Of course they think you’re wonderful.”

But now they’d think Eric was just being unrealistic, focusing on the positive, and they’d tell him so.

Jack gripped the steering wheel harder and willed the cars and trucks in front of him to move. It didn’t work.

So he breathed, deep and measured. It would be fine, Eric said. His parents were nice people who liked Jack and wouldn’t hold being 10 minutes late against him. It would be fine.

His phone rang again. Eric.

“Hello?” 

“Hi, Jack. Their plane is gonna be about 20 minutes late, it looks like. I texted Mama so she’ll get it when they land and gave her your number, so she’ll call you and figure out where to meet. Don’t worry -- they’ve driven in Atlanta, Jack. They understand about traffic. They’re just impressed that you’re taking the time to pick them up at all.”

“Thanks, Eric,” Jack said. “I’m taking the airport exit now, so we should be fine. Um, sorry I was getting upset about it.”

“No need to apologize, Mr. Zimmermann,” Eric said, a warm tone in his voice. “I know you hate to be late. Five minutes early is on time and all that.”

“Really, thanks. I’m heading into the parking garage, so I’ll let you go. See you in a while.”

Eric was right. It was fine. He parked and went in and checked the board to see that the Bittle’s flight had just landed. He took up a post near the carousel where the baggage from their flight would arrive, and soon enough, his phone vibrated with a call from Suzanne.

Less than 10 minutes later, the Bittles were there, and Jack was being squeezed tightly by Suzanne and getting a handshake and a slap on the shoulder from Coach.

“Dicky said you were running a little late,” Suzanne said. “I’m so glad you weren’t sitting here waiting for us all that time. You weren’t here long, were you?”

“No, just a few minutes,” Jack said. “Do you have to get bags?”

“Oh, no, we have all our things here,” Suzanne said. “We’re ready to go.”

Jack led the way to his car. 

“My, it’s chilly out here,” Suzanne said, wrapping her coat more tightly around her as they stepped outside.

“It takes some getting used to,” Jack said. “But my car has heated seats.”

“Oooh,” Suzanne said. “Richard, did you hear that? Heated seats!”

Coach grunted.

******************************

It was past 1 p.m. when Jack tugged open the door of Sugar ‘n’ Spice to usher the Bittles in.

“Hey, Dex,” Jack said. “Eric here?”

“In the back,” Dex said. “I’ll get him.”

Suzanne was looking at the food in the cases with a critical eye.

“These pies really do look good, but it’s hard to keep the taste right when you have to make so many of them,” she said.

She looked up to see Eric, coming through the door from the kitchen, drying his freshly washed hands on what looked like a clean apron.

“Dicky! This is lovely. So much better than last time I was here.”

“You haven’t been here since I started managing,” Eric said.

“And you seem to be doing a good job,” she said.

“Suzanne, Coach, it was nice to see you,” Jack said. “I need to go rest up, but I’ll put your bags in Eric’s apartment, if that’s OK.”

“Of course, Jack dear,” Suzanne said. “Dicky, you’re sure you don’t mind giving up your bed to us? It won’t be too inconvenient for you to stay with Jack?”

“No, Mama, it’s fine, really,” Eric said. “I put fresh sheets on the bed and everything.”

Coach was shooting Eric an amused look. Coach. The man he had been scared to tell he was gay was looking amused that his mother hadn’t figured out (or was in denial) that her son would rather sleep with his boyfriend than alone.

Eric grinned back at his father and said, “I spend a lot of time at Jack’s anyway. I do most of my cooking there because his kitchen’s so much nicer.”

“Well, I suppose that makes sense,” Suzanne said. “You want to make something tomorrow? Or do you get enough of baking here?”

Eric shrugged.

“It’s different at home, when you’re not using the big mixers and such and you know who you’re cooking for,” he said. “What do you want to make? A pecan pie? I can make dinner for all of us.”

“No, Eric, we said we’d take you out and we will,” Suzanne said. “But a pecan pie would be good. And maybe some of those chocolate cherry cookies you always liked.”

“Sounds good, Mama. Now, y’all haven’t eaten, have you? Just have a seat. I made quiche for you.”

As soon as his parents were seated at the table, Eric went to fetch the individual quiches from the kitchen.

When he returned to the front, his mother was engaging Dex in conversation.

“Do you enjoy it, working here?” 

“Yeah, I do,” Dex said. “I never really thought I would like working in a bakery, but it’s cool. Bitty -- uh, Eric -- makes it easy to make it to my classes, and he’s taught me to do so much other stuff.”

Eric smiled.

“Dex is the one who’s usually in charge if I need time off,” Eric said. “Which I don’t think can be easy, since the other two usual employees are his roommates. But he makes it work.”

“Classes?” Coach said. “What are you studying?”

“Computer science, but just part-time,” Dex said. “I should finish up in another two years.”

“Not thinking of a career in baking then?” Suzanne asked.

“Not really,” Dex said. “But maybe running my own business someday. I’d like that.”

“Nurse should be here by 2, right?” Eric said. “When he comes in, I’ll take my folks home. In the meantime, I do have some things to take care of in back. Mama, Coach, feel free to come back when you’re done eating.”

Dex used the afternoon lull to sweep and wipe down the tables while Suzanne looked at Pinterest on her phone and Coach read the papers and magazines that had been left behind by other customers.

When he was sure that Eric was busy in the back, Dex said, “I just wanted to tell you how much I like working for Eric. He’s taught me so much, not just about baking.”

“I’m real glad to hear that,” Suzanne said. “You must be doing a good job, then.”

“What has he taught you about, son?” Coach said. “Planning? Budgeting?”

“Some of that,” Dex said. “But also, I mean, just how to be a better person?”

Suzanne looked at him now.

“I mean, I know he and Jack are tight, but this last year hasn’t always been easy for him,” Dex said. “When people found out about them, it brought a lot of attention to him, not all of it good. And Jack has to be away a lot. But he never missed a day of work, never stopped smiling. You should be proud of him.”

“We are, son,” Coach said. 

******************

Jack had really wanted to win this game.

Jack really wanted to win every game. But this game was in front of not just his boyfriend (although Jack had started to suspect that “boyfriend” did not even begin to describe how important Eric was in his life) and his boyfriend’s parents.

His boyfriend’s parents who weren’t hockey fans, who had never before seen an NHL game, and his team lost.

In overtime, but still.

At least they weren’t visiting the locker room. Eric didn’t think his mother would cope well with that.

“I know y’all don’t mind,” Eric said. “But Mama -- she wouldn’t know where to look.”

But now Jack had to shower and dress and go meet them in the corridor leading to the player parking lot, and probably stop for food on the way home.

He really wasn’t in the mood to be social.

He wasn’t in the mood for anything except maybe to go to bed and bury his face against Eric’s shoulder and smell the scent that meant Eric (that meant home) and go to sleep and hope things looked better in the morning.

But they needed to get food, and Eric’s parents would need to eat, and he had to be a good host before that could happen.

Jack finished buttoning his shirt, stuffed his tie in his pocket, and headed out.

For a moment, the tableau that met him reminded him of the day Eric had first come to a game with Jack’s parents. Eric was again sitting on the floor, head tipped back against the wall, and Coach leaned his back against the wall next to him. 

Suzanne stood in front of them and was the first to see Jack. She interrupted what she was saying to nudge Eric with the toe of her winter boot and to tap Coach on the arm, like she was telling them to straighten up.

She turned to Jack with a bright smile.

“Well, that sure was exciting,” she said. “I don't know that I’ve ever seen a game so fast.”

“That was a good game,” Coach said. “Seems like it just came down to a bounce or two.”

Jack opened his mouth to disagree -- it had come down to a Connor McDavid breakaway that Jack would have called a thing of beauty if it wasn't against his team -- but remembered the Bittles were guests who were trying to make him feel better.

“Maybe,” he said, extending a hand to pull Eric up. “We did have our chances.”

Once he was on his feet, Eric slid his arms around Jack’s waist and said quietly, “How are you, sugar? Really?”

Jack kissed the top of his head and said, “Better now. Tired.”

Suzanne must have heard, because she said, “Let's go home then. We got the fixings for some grilled sandwiches all ready -- all we have to do is put them together and heat them up, and then you can get some rest.”

Eric hopped in the driver’s seat, earning a raise eyebrow from Coach, and had them home in minutes.

“Why don’t you go change and Mama and I will bring the food over here and make the sandwiches?” Eric said, heading for his apartment.

Jack emerged from his bedroom in a soft T-shirt and track pants and found Coach standing alone in the entryway.

“Um, have a seat,” Jack said. “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Beer?”

“I’ll take a beer if you’ve got one,” Coach said, and followed Jack towards the kitchen. “You going to have one?”

“I might,” Jack said.

“Doesn’t feel good to lose a close game like that, does it?” Coach said.

“No,sir.” Jack said. “It doesn’t.”

“Now, I know I don’t know hockey like I know football, but it seems to me your team played well,” Coach said. “And you did everything anyone could ask from a captain. Your team looks up to you, you know. I can see they way they listen to you.”

Coach stopped to take a swig from his bottle.

“You didn’t let them down, you know,” he continued. “You did your best. Things just didn’t go your way tonight.”

Jack shrugged. “It never feels good to lose.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Coach said. “But if you act like the weight of the world is on your shoulders, they’re going to feel like they let you down. You need to make sure they know the important thing is to come back and play the next game.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack said.

“Jack, I’ve been around a lot of athletes my whole life,” Coach said. “You’re special. You’re the kind of once-in-a-lifetime player that every coach hopes to have, and not just because you’re talented and work hard. You inspire your teammates to work hard, too. I’m proud to know you.”

Jack swallowed, and tried to think of what to say, when the door burst open.

“We’re sorry it took so long,” Suzanne was saying. “I knew we had a jar of roasted red peppers, but I couldn’t find it. Hungry?”

*********************************

When Eric followed his mother to his apartment, he was assuming that they’d load up meats and cheeses and bread, maybe a couple of condiments, and be back at Jack’s -- back at their apartment -- before Jack got changed, so he wasn’t surprised Coach went right there.

It wasn’t until he had opened the door to his (old) apartment for his mother and she followed him in and closed the door that he realized she had other plans.

“So, Dicky,” she said, as he pulled turkey and roast beef from the refrigerator, “you have something you want to tell me?”

He set the meat down on the counter and reached for a bowl in the upper cabinet to carry the food.

The bowl wasn’t there. Right, he’d brought it to Jack’s -- to their apartment -- and not brought it back. No matter. There was a basket on top of the fridge.

“About what, Mama?” Eric asked.

“About where you actually live,” she said.

Well. 

“What do you mean, Mama?” Eric said. “You know I live here.”

“I know you live in this building, but I’d bet my granny’s rolling pin that you don’t live in this apartment,” she said. “Not with a refrigerator like that, and cupboards that would put Old Mother Hubbard to shame.”

“Mother, I told you, I usually cook in Jack’s apartment,” Eric said. “His kitchen is much nicer, and it’s just easier to only buy one set of groceries.”

“That doesn’t explain why there are two sets of underpants in your dresser and your hamper is empty,” his mother said. “Mother!”

“Oh, come on, Dicky,” his mother said. “I wasn’t born yesterday -- and neither were you. You’re an adult, and you’re in a relationship that’s been going for almost a year, and it wasn’t done so much when I was young, but I know most young people do live together for a time. But please don’t lie to me about what;s going on in your life.”

“Sorry, Mama,” Eric said. “It just seemed … embarrassing, I guess? … to say I was staying by Jack’s most of the time. I’m keeping this apartment, though, at least for now, because sometimes our schedules just aren’t compatible and we need our own space. Sometimes Jack really wants to watch tape, and I really want to watch ‘Chopped.’”

Eric stopped and shrugged.

“Besides, I like to have two ovens.”

“So I’m guessing you’re not staying in Jack’s guest room?” 

“No, ma’am,” Eric said. “It’s mostly an office, anyway.”

“Well, I don’t much care to be embarrassed either,” his mother said. “So in the morning, your father and I will wait for you to call before we come over. You and I are making breakfast, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Eric said. “We don’t usually sleep late, but there is coffee in the freezer, and milk and cream in the fridge, and bread for toast if you wake up early and hungry.”

“I can’t imagine we’ll be hungry if we make sandwiches now,” his mother said. “But thanks. I’m sure I can find whatever we need.”

Saying goodnight to his parents that night was a bit strange, Eric thought, but overall, he and his mother carried it through rather well.

Jack had relaxed enough to be explaining the structure of the Falconers’ power play to Coach after Eric and his mother came back. The explanation seemed to require several digressions into what other structures teams used, and which penalty kill defenses worked best, and how tailor the strategies to best suit the players on the ice.

Coach, a natural tactician when it came to team sports, seemed more engaged than Eric had ever seen with a conversation that wasn’t about football.

Then talk turned to plans for Monday. Jack and the Falconers were spending the morning painting a homeless shelter as an MLK day service project; Eric was providing baked goods for the volunteers. Coach and Suzanne would join them until Eric drove them to Logan for their flight.

“I can get up and make everything first,” Eric said. “Y’all don’t have to get up that early.”

“Don’t be silly,” his mother said. “Of course I’ll help.”

“We’ll help,” Coach said.

After everyone ate, Eric loaded plates in the dishwasher while his mother wiped the cutting board and washed the knives, over Jack’s objections.

“I can help Eric,” he said. “You’re a guest.”

“Oh, no, honey, you must be exhausted,” Eric’s mother said. “This won’t take a minute.”

“Just let her, Jack,” Eric said. “Trust me. Arguing will just take longer.”

Walking out the door, his mother had assured him again that she and Coach would not make an appearance at Jack’s door until Eric called to say they were ready.

After the door shut, Jack cocked an eyebrow at Eric.

“Giving us our privacy?” he asked.

“In a manner of speaking,” Eric said. “She knows I’ve basically moved in, but only because she went through my underwear drawer.”

Jack laughed.

“Good thing we keep the lube and condoms here, then.” 

**************************

Jack watched Eric drive off with his parents at noon on Monday, on their way to Logan to head home to Georgia.

“Papa, can you give me a ride home?” he asked.

“Of course, Jack.” his father said. “Just let me clean my hands.”

His father wiped as much paint as he could on a rag near the piled up supplies, gave up and headed for the laundry room.

Jack and five teammates, along with a crew of about a dozen family members, had spent the morning painting bedrooms and a day nursery at the House of the Good Shepherd, a transitional shelter for women and their children who were leaving dangerous or abusive situations. He’d committed to come at the beginning of the season, well before Eric had invited his parents to come this weekend. When Eric explained the situation, Suzanne said, “Well of course we’ll help too.”

It wasn’t until after Christmas that Jack’s parents had jumped in. When Maman said they were looking for a time to visit in January, Jack had mentioned that the Bittles would be in town and that they would be joining a MLK Day service project, and Maman had immediately said, “Would the team mind if we came too?”

“Um, I’m sure they wouldn’t, but maybe it would be better for Eric to have the weekend with his parents?” Jack said.

“Not the whole weekend,” his mother said. “Just that Monday. I don’t want to intrude. But Eric did say Suzanne is a fan.”

“Let me ask Eric,” Jack said.

With Eric’s approval, Jack told his parents to come ahead and he game them the address of the shelter to meet the volunteer crew. Jack rode over with Coach; Eric and Suzanne were coming from the bakery with muffins, pastries and a variety of quick breads. There would also be a selection of cookies and pies for the residents of the shelter, Jack was sure.

As they pulled up, Jack turned to Coach and said, “Can you keep a secret?”

“That depends,” Coach said suspiciously. “Is there something you’re keeping from Junior?” 

“Not like that,” Jack said. “Just until Eric and Suzanne get here. And Eric knows.”

“Knows what?” Coach asked.

“My parents are here this morning,” Jack said. “My dad likes to hang out with the team, and Eric thought Suzanne might like to meet my mother. I mean, you can call her and tell her if you don’t think it’s a good idea.”

But now Coach was grinning. “I think that’s a great idea. Just let me get my phone out to get a picture.”

“OK,” Jack said. “But there’s probably someone from PR here, too. They won’t use anything we don’t want them to, but if you want pictures from them, they’re usually pretty good.”

Things had moved quickly from there. Jack greeted his parents and introduced Coach. The assembled hockey players and guests divided up into teams, with Coach and his father each grabbing rollers and sharing a pan.

Jack and his teammates got the painting gear set up and started to work, the videographers and photographers got their shots, and soon enough Jack’s phone was vibrating. “Eric and Suzanne are almost here,” Jack told the fathers.

Jack and Coach went out to help carry the baked goods in, with Jack’s father staying back by the refreshment table with Alicia.

Suzanne hadn’t dropped the tray of muffins she was carrying when she saw Jack’s mother, but it looked like it was a near thing.

“You’re Alicia Montgomery!” she said.

Alicia smiled and said, “And you’re Suzanne Bittle. You have a lovely son, you know.”

“So do you,” Suzanne said. “Jack is such a gentleman. And I know where he got those manners. Thank you for hosting Dicky -- I mean Eric. But look at you -- over here painting, and just as beautiful as ever.”

“I don’t know about that,” his mother said. “Did you make some of this?”

“I helped,” Suzanne said. “But Dicky’s the real baker now.”

“But you taught him, yes?” Alicia said. “The care package you sent me was delicious. I especially liked the lemon scones.”

Jack would swear he could see Suzanne filing that away.

The two mothers took themselves off to the day nursery to add cartoon character wall decorations and, no doubt, swap stories about their husbands and sons.

An hour later, Eric drove away with his parents, stopping for a brief kiss from Jack. Jack caught Coach’s eye, seeing surprise at their public affection, but not disapproval.

It was a matter of another hour before the work was done and the group posed for pictures and greeted the residents, who returned from a morning outing to their brightened quarters. Jack was popular with the children, but he saw their mothers gravitate to his mother.

For her part, she complimented them on their hair, their makeup, the way they put outfits together.

Finally, it was time to go.

Jack climbed into the back seat of his parents’ rental car, and listened to his mother talk about tentative plans to come back and do a workshop on how to apply makeup for the women. 

“Some of them were saying they wanted to look more professional for interviews,” she said. “I’m sure I can get some of the products donated.”

She stopped to take a sip from her water bottle.

“Jack, love, make sure to let us know the next time the Bittles are coming up. I want to take Suzanne shopping.”

“Better her than me, Maman,” Jack said.


	8. Feb. 13-17: Valentine's Day, Providence, San Jose, Los Angeles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack is on a West Coast road trip over Valentine's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped to have this up a couple of days ago, but I've had a rough week, and it didn't happen until now. Still unbeta'd, so please let me know if I need to fix something!

Eric hated Valentine’s Day.

Back when he was single, he always thought it was the kind of thing he would like once he was part of a couple. He'd be able to buy his boyfriend a cheesy card, maybe make a romantic dinner and decadent dessert. Maybe his boyfriend would bring him flowers -- or even better, send them to his work, so everyone would know someone loved him. It's not like he would flaunt it in front of his single friends or anything. But he would enjoy being part of a couple on a day dedicated to celebrating couplehood. Because face it: no matter how many “gal-entines” or “pal-entines” gatherings he was invited to, that's not what Valentine’s Day was for.

That was before he worked in a bakery.

Eric insisted on waiting at least until the beginning of February to decorate, but by the time the actual day rolled around, it seemed like red and pink hearts were everywhere. No matter how much he pleaded for a sophisticated minimalism, there seemed to be more each time he stepped out of the kitchen. The latest was a garland of paper hearts strung across the front of the counter.

“Chowder, where did this come from?” he asked. “I didn’t see it in the box of decorations.”

“Oh, Cait made that last night,” Chow said. “She was trying to find a craft her first-graders could do when they come after school today. I didn't want it to go to waste.”

“Well, that was kind of you,” Eric said, trying to sound appropriately enthusiastic. 

“Um, speaking of kind, could I maybe come in a little late on Thursday? I can be here by 6:30, but probably not 6, if I stay at Caitlin's Wednesday night.” Chowder had gone bright red.

“Big plans?” Eric said. “Sure. Make it 7. I can handle it on my own for a bit.”

It felt like everything he'd baked for a week was either heart-shaped or red -- the heart-shaped red velvet cupcakes were especially popular -- and he couldn't really complain because business was great.

And it wasn't like he was too tired or overworked to properly acknowledge the holiday with Jack, because Jack was currently clear across the continent and would be for the next three days.

Last year, they'd only just gotten together before Valentine's Day. It had been nice -- a lovely dinner with steak and red wine in Jack’s apartment, homemade raspberry tartlets, an exchange of cards, the flowers that Jack brought on the table. It hadn't mattered that Eric had to get up early to work the next day or that Jack actually weighed his steak on the kitchen scale to see how far off his nutrition plan the meal was. 

And it wasn't like this road trip was a surprise. It had been on the calendar for months. Eric had kind of casually noticed in September that Jack would be out of town for Valentine's Day. But when he'd left Monday morning without so much as mentioning the holiday … Eric didn't mention it either. He just said, “Are your parents still coming to California?”

“Yeah, the Ducks and the Kings games,” Jack said.

Eric had smiled and said, “Tell them I said hello. I'll text your mom and make sure she cheers extra loud for me.”

Then Jack had kissed him goodbye and left to get his ride to the airport.

That was yesterday, and they'd talked last night before Eric went to bed and it had been fine. Jack hadn't said anything about the card in the red envelope labeled “Do not open until Feb 14” that Eric had slipped into his bag.

This trip was far from the longest they had been separated. It was just at a rough time, when Eric was both slammed at work and seeing evidence of other happy couples everywhere he looked.

Eric shook himself mentally and physically. “Snap out of it,” he told himself. “Quit moping around.” 

With that, he pulled out his phone and texted Lardo.

“Any open ice?” he asked.

Later, as he laced his skates, he told Lardo, “I never thought I cared that much about Valentine’s Day. I mean, it's just a day. I don't need flowers and chocolate, and lord knows I have enough to do. And it's not like Jack is just blowing me off. I'm not mad at him. I just wish he was here.”

“I get it, Bits,” Lardo said. “It's a lot easier to talk about how stupid it all is when there isn't someone you're missing.”

“Speaking of, how's Shitty?” 

“Shut your mouth,” Lardo said. “He's fine. But he's not going to bow to the pressure to participate in the commercial excess of Valentine's Day.”

“I'll bring you a flower if you want,” Eric said. “And a cookie.”

“And I'll get you a card,” Lardo said.

“Deal,” Eric said, handing over his phone so she could plug it into the sound system. “Practice Two playlist today.”

*******************************

Jack taped his socks over his shin pads and tapped his stick against them. Ready to take the ice for warmups.

He’d talked with Eric just before dressing -- waiting until after the game would be too late for Eric to stay up.

“Go to bed, bud,” Jack said. “You can’t watch every West Coast game and still make it to work in the morning. You need to sleep.”

“But I like watching you play,” Eric said.

“Then I’ll just have to get everything done in the first period,” Jack said.

“Maybe the first two?” Eric said. “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself.”

“Fine,” Jack said. “Then you’ll go to sleep?”

“How about I sleep in my apartment?” Eric said. “That way I can see the TV from the bed, and if I fall asleep, I fall asleep.”

“But our bed is so much more comfortable,” Jack said. “You know you sleep better there.”

“Only when you’re home,” Eric said. 

“And I like imagining you in our bed,” Jack said.

Eric had sighed, and said primly, “You can imagine whatever you like, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Then both of them had burst into giggles.

Jack couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he headed onto the ice for his laps.

As the team lined up to take shots, Tater patted -- more like pawed -- Jack’s head.

“Zimboni is smiling,” he said. “That means we win tonight. You hear, Guy? Zimboni is already smiling. That means we win.”

“Don’t jinx us, Mashkov,” Guy grumbled.

“Poots! Marty! See Zimboni smile! We win tonight!”

Jack shook his head.

“Don’t think it works that way, Tater,” he said. “That’d be too easy. But let’s win anyway, eh?”

“I don’t know about that,” Marty said. “Time was, seeing you happy before a game just didn’t happen. Since a certain someone came into your life, you’re much happier. And we win more.”

“Fine,” Jack said, still not able to keep his lips from turning up at the corners. “Just win, and I’ll be even happier.”

Jack scored in the first, on a partial breakaway with a sweet pass from Tater, and looked straight at a camera, hoping the operator and producers picked up on it. 

He set up Poots for a goal on a rebound in the second, making it a 2-1 lead. With a minute left in the second, he blocked a Brent Burns shot with his shin guard. Skating to the bench -- only limping a little, despite what he was pretty sure was a cracked pad -- he made a point of looking at his wrist like he was checking the time on a clock. Time for Eric to go to bed. Tomorrow was Valentine's Day, and Eric had to be at the bakery to take a delivery bright and early.

The trainer came up behind him as soon as he sat down.

“Jack, what's the damage?”

“It'll be a nasty bruise on my shin, and I think I need a new pad, but otherwise I'm OK,” Jack said. “I'm fine to stay in.”

“What about your wrist? Did you get slashed?”

“My wrist?” Jack smiled when he figured it out. “It's fine.”

The rest of the game wasn't so much fun. Jack kind of hoped Eric wasn't watching when Logan Couture tied it five minutes into the third. Snowy stood on his head for the next five as the Sharks just kept coming.

The last 10 minutes were nothing but a series of neutral zone turnovers and missed passes on both sides, leading to an overtime where Ward slipped it in with 30 seconds left. 

At least they got a point out of it. 

By the time the team made it to the dressing room it was 10:30 p.m., 1:30 a.m. in Providence. Eric had to be up in less than three hours. There was absolutely no way Jack could call him. Not even a text, because Jack knew Eric left the sound on his phone when he went to sleep, especially if Jack was on the road, “just in case, Jack.”

Jack showered, dressed, answered a couple of questions from reporters with stock phrases that he had memorized a decade ago and flopped into his seat on the bus.

As soon as he got back to his room, he opened his laptop and headed to Eric’s YouTube channel. Which should he watch? Nothing too old -- something from the Eric he knew. The most recent post was an updated recipe for old-fashioned sugar cookies, which Eric noted could be cut into heart shapes and decorated with red icing or red sanding sugar for Valentine's Day. 

But two weeks ago -- there it was -- Eric made a tourtière based on a recipe in the Québécois cookbook Jack’s mother had given him for Christmas. He remembered when Eric was planning to make it; the freezer still held several portions made with different variations of the recipe.

Jack settled into bed and watched Eric cooking in their kitchen, talking about the ratio of pork to beef, the necessity of cloves, and whether it would be wrong to add red pepper flakes or cayenne. He was drowsing as Eric talked about different binding agents -- he liked bread crumbs for their texture, but acknowledged that potato was more traditional.

By the time Eric was applying the egg wash to the top, Jack was asleep, dreaming of eating Eric’s tourtière on Christmas.

***********************************

Eric sighed as he dressed in a red henley and a darker red plaid button-down. “Happy Valentine’s Day to me,” he said.

He’d checked his phone as soon as he woke up to see if he’d missed a text from Jack while he was sleeping, but there was nothing there. It was far too early for him to text or call; in California, Jack wouldn’t have to be awake for almost four hours. No doubt they would talk later; the team had an off day but would be flying to southern California for back-to-back games against the Ducks and the Kings.

But for now, Eric had work to do. Red velvet, strawberries, raspberries, chocolate -- lots of chocolate. After work, he had a date to meet Lardo to skate, and bring the flowers he promised. He had ordered a bouquet of white and yellow roses from the florist down the block. Really, there were worse ways to spend the day.

He let himself into Sugar ‘n’ Spice and deactivated the alarm -- an addition after the graffiti incidents last spring -- and turned on music and the small coffee maker in the kitchen. He pulled out the list he made the previous evening and got to work.

Eric was putting the first items in the cases up front when Chowder walked in.

“Morning, Bitty. Ready for Valentine’s Day?”

“Ready for it to be over, more like,” Eric said. “Blueberries. Remember baking with blueberries? Or peaches. Or anything not red, really.”

Chowder grinned.

“I’ll take blueberry muffins today if you make them,” he said. “They’re Cait’s favorite.”

“Using my baked goods to seduce your girlfriend, Christopher?” Eric asked. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

“But Bitty, it’s not like …” Chowder stopped and turned red.

Eric giggled.

“I know, I know,” Eric said. “You wouldn’t need my muffins for that. You just want to make her happy. I get it. Tell you what, I’ll set aside a dozen for you, all right?”

“Thanks, Bits! We can have them for breakfast tomorrow. You’re sure it’s OK if I come in late tomorrow?”

“It really is,” Eric said. “I don’t really have any plans tonight after I skate.”

Eric went back to the kitchen to continue the morning’s baking while Chowder set up the front of the shop and got the big coffeemaker going. Eric carried trays out to be put in the cases in between shuttling pans in an out of the ovens and icing cupcakes and cookies.

He was in the kitchen when he heard Chowder call that he was opening.

Within two minutes, he heard the bell on the top of the door chime, then again and again. His regulars did like their morning treats.

Chowder appeared in the door to the kitchen.

“Bits? Can you come out here for a minute?”

“Sure,” Eric said. “What is it?”

“You’ll see,” Chowder said.

Standing at the counter was the florist from down the block, behind two enormous vases with red roses. Something about them looked … different.

“There’s 13 in each,” the florist said. “Baker’s dozen, Mr. Zimmermann said. He also said he wanted two, so you could have one in the kitchen and one in the front, and he especially wanted to make sure they were delivered first thing when you opened.”

Eric was still staring, a hand in front of his mouth, his eyes a little shiny.

“Oh, Lord,” he said finally. “That boy. I can’t even text him -- it’s 3:30 in the morning in California. But thanks, Tom. Let me get you some coffee, and maybe some pastries to take back for your crew?”

“You don’t have to do that, Eric,” Tom said. “Your boyfriend did pay for this, you know.”

“I know, I know, but you’re going to have a busy day,” Eric said. “You’ve got to take care of your staff.”

Chowder was already filling a box. Eric filled a to-go cup and thanked Tom again before he left.

Then his phone buzzed with a notification.

“I just sent you a picture of you when you saw them,” Chowder said. “I thought you might want to send it to Jack.”

“Thanks, Chowder, I will once he’s likely to be up,” Eric said.

Then he pulled out his phone and took a picture of the flowers to post on his personal Instagram account. _#myboyfriendissoextra_

******************************

Jack woke at 7 a.m. to a screenful of notifications, mostly from the Falconers chat.

_O captain my captain, you're making the rest of us look bad!_

_I always know Zimboni is a romantic_

_Seriously, dude, two vases full? Before 7 am? You know my wife follows Eric_

_My captain is so extra_

Marty said his wife followed Eric, who must have posted something about the flowers. Twitter? Instagram? Probably both.

He pulled up Eric's Instagram feed and saw the artfully composed picture of the two arrangements of roses under the bakery lights. He liked it and then sent a text to Eric.

 _Good morning! Happy Valentine’s Day! I see the flowers arrived like the florist said they would_. _I’m glad you like them!_

He checked the time: 7:20, 10:20 in Providence. Eric might actually be in a lull. Sure enough, his phone buzzed a minute later, with a photo of Eric, his hand over his mouth not quite covering his smile and his eyes shining.

_Chowder took this. He sent it to me to send to you. Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too!_

There was a pause.

_Why did the card say not to take them home?_

_Not telling,_ Jack responded.

 _Why not?_ Eric wrote.

_That would be telling. Do you have big plans for today?_

Eric typed, _Just meeting up with Lardo to skate after work. I promised her a flower bc Shitty doesn’t do Hallmark holidays. You?_

 _We’re flying to LA this morning, then some time on our own. Some of the guys are getting dinner later, but that’ll be like 10 pm for you,_ Jack typed. _Can I call you on Skype at about 8 your time? I really want to see you today._

 _Me too,_ Eric typed. _I can’t wait._

Jack opened the card Eric had left in his bag and blushed when he read it. It wasn’t that it was sexual -- it was flowery and sentimental, and Eric wrote inside that Jack would just have to get used to that, “because you are more than I ever hoped for, and all I ever want. I never imagined having someone like you love me, and sometimes I can’t believe it’s true, but you show me over and over again. I hope you know how much I love you too. I will tell you how much I love you every single day. I’d also say I was giving you a gift certificate for unlimited free baked goods for life, but you already have that.”

For life, Eric had said. Did he mean it? Did he even know what he wrote? Because Jack would be up for spending his life with Eric.

But that wasn’t a conversation to have over text while Eric was at work.

Once Jack had gotten into his new hotel room, he hit the gym for a quick run on the treadmill, then showered and replied to emails until 5 o’clock rolled around. 

At 5, he opened the Skype app and saw that Eric was already waiting, so he connected the call.

Eric was sitting at his dining room table, the flowers Jack had sent home clearly in the frame behind him.

“I can’t believe you,” Eric said, his grin giving the lie to the exasperation he was trying for. “Do you know how much roses cost? On Valentine’s Day?”

“I think I have the receipt here somewhere,” Jack said. “Whatever it was was worth it to tell my boyfriend that I wish I could be with him on Valentine’s Day.”

“But three bouquets? One would have gotten the message across.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Jack said. “It needed at least three. I thought about just filling the apartment with flowers, like in the movies, but that would have been too hard to clean up.”

“You silly, over-the-top man,” Eric said, shaking his head.

“Thanks for the card, too,” Jack said. “I really liked it. I would say it made me think of you, but I’ve been thinking of you all day.”

“I didn’t just get you a card,” Eric said. “Well, sort of. I was going to make you a special dinner -- whatever you want -- on Saturday night.”

“Whatever I want? Even chicken tenders?”

“Even chicken tenders,” Eric said, with a determined nod, like he had to reassure himself that he really could do that.

“Can I take a rain check?” Jack said. “I want to take you out Saturday. On a real date. We don’t do that enough. Maybe Waterman Grille? You can pick somewhere else if you want.”

“The place on the river?” Eric asked. “Sounds wonderful. Of course. I’d love to go.”

“I’ll get us reservations,” Jack said. “We’ll get back sometime Saturday morning, but you’ll be at work already, so I’ll just come home and get some sleep. You’re off Sunday, right?”

“Sure am,” Eric said, his grin turning the slightest bit wicked. “Did you have something in mind for late Saturday night?”

“I’ll tell you, but will you take the computer to the bedroom and get comfortable? And by that, I mean take your clothes off?”

“Only if you join me,” Eric said, already carrying the computer toward the bedroom.

They had done this before, of course, but Jack was amazed every time at how open and sexy and fun Eric could be in front of a webcam. In some ways, he was less shy than he was in person -- at least early in their relationship. Now they had an easy intimacy, over the internet or in person, something Jack thought he would never be able to achieve.

When they were done, Eric yawned and said, “I need to sleep, and you need to shower before you meet the guys for dinner. G’night, Jack. I love you.”

“I love you, too, _lapinou._ Sleep well. I’ll talk with you tomorrow.”

 

_**************************_

Eric looked at his reflection as he knotted his red bow tie. Behind him, he could see Jack sitting on the bed, shirt still open, as he put on his shoes.

The Falconers had finished the road trip with back-to-back wins in Anaheim and Los Angeles, and Eric felt like he had spent as much time texting and talking to people in California as he had in dealing with people right in front of him in Providence. Somehow, Bob and Alicia felt the need to tell Eric about everything they did when they visited Jack, making it feel like he was almost -- _almost --_ sharing the experience. Tater also texted or tweeted at Eric a few times a day, telling him about the abysmal lack of quality baked goods in California, especially the lack of the Russian specialities that Eric had added to his repertoire for his favorite Falconer D-man.

Then Jack had been curled in their bed when Eric came home from work. Eric had set an alarm so they wouldn’t be late for dinner, stripped down to his boxer briefs and crawled in behind Jack, trying not to wake him. Jack had turned, dropped an arm over Eric’s waist, and settled back into slumber.

It was nearly two hours later that Eric woke to the feeling of Jack’s thumb tracing circles over his ribs. When he squirmed, Jack leaned to kiss his forehead, then his eyelids, and then going back to sleep was the last thing on Eric’s mind.

They still made it out of bed and into the shower in plenty of time to make their 7:30 p.m. reservations.

Jack drove, and when they left the car with the valet, he took Eric’s hand to lead him into the restaurant. He only relinquished Eric’s hand to take a seat at the table, next to the window overlooking the river, and then covered Eric’s hand again.

“Keep that up, and people are going to think we’re together,” Eric said.

“We are,” Jack said. 

“Yes, but we usually don’t … make it obvious,” Eric said, but he didn’t pull his hand away..

“Maybe we should, sometimes,” Jack said. “We’re out, people know, and it’s Valentine’s Day weekend, and I want to take you out, and wine and dine you, and show you off, and every other cliche you can think of. I’m so proud to be your boyfriend, and I want everyone to know.”

“Well, then,” Eric said. “You go right ahead.”

It wasn’t practical to keep holding hands once their meals arrived, but if the way Jack looked at him wouldn’t have told people they were together, the way their feet bumped under the table probably would.

Jack talked about spending Valentine’s Day evening with the “old married guys” on the team, chirping each other about who missed their partner more, and Eric talked about wanting to put a moratorium on anything red at Sugar ‘n’ Spice for at least two weeks. Except for the roses, which were still beautiful.

“It really was too much,” Eric said. “But I love them.”

“I loved your card,” Jack said. “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?” Eric said. “I mean, I meant every word. But what in particular?”

“You said I could have free baked goods for life,” Jack said. “Was it just an expression? Or did you mean that, for life?”

“Of course I meant it,” Eric said. “I’m here as long as you want me.”

“For life,” Jack said.

“If you want me that long,” Eric said. “Wait -- you’re not proposing, are you?”

“No,” Jack said. “If I do, I’ll do it properly. I was just making sure. And making sure you knew.”

“If you do?”

“I can’t be sure,” Jack said. “You could always beat me to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justlookfrightened)!


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